


All Things Inherit

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Sherlock is still a consulting detective, Telepathy, Werewolves, Wolves, john is still an army doctor, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For John, it's not a bullet that throws his existence into disarray – it's a bite."</p><p>In a world where twelve percent of the population are Mactiri - people with the ability to turn into wolves at will - John finds himself struggling with a new and horrifying existence. The victim of a shocking attack, he is discharged from the army and sent home, determined never to acknowledge what he can now become.</p><p>However, when his health starts to fail, it is up to his enigmatic new flatmate to show him that perhaps his life is not the nightmare John believes it to be.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission. Thank you :)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Some gore, some scenes of a sexually explicit nature. Mentions of suicide and suicide ideation.
> 
>  **Pronunciations (General Populace)**  
>  Mactire = Macktyre  
> Mactiri (plural) = Mack-tih-ree  
> Faolchu = Fowlchew
> 
> **How Sherlock says them: (Audio files)**  
> [Mac tíre](http://www.forvo.com/word/mac_t%C3%ADre/)  
> [Faolchú](http://www.forvo.com/word/faolch%C3%BA/)

* * *

 

The world can change in a flash. John's a surgeon; he sees it every day. Whether it's sterile operating theatres or the sand-swept front-lines of Afghanistan, it makes no difference. The balance of survival is caught up in the alignment of circumstance. If you're lucky, you'll make it. The blood will cease and stitches will keep the wound closed and clean. If not...

It's like tossing a coin. Heads: Everything goes on as normal. Tails: Well, you never think that's going to happen to you.

For John, it's not a bullet that throws his existence into disarray – it's a bite.

**********

A growl reverberated through the air, and John's breath froze in his throat. It was too late. He would remember that later. By the time he realised the animal was there, he'd already run out of time. There was no chance to shout or reach for his gun. One minute, he was getting supplies for the field surgery, the next, sharp teeth dug into the flesh over his kidney.

Blood welled and dripped as the creature scrabbled at him. Fur shifted over protruding bones, and the rank stench of feral beast assailed John's nose, almost lost within the pain. Christ it hurt. Not just the sharp agony of the wound itself, but a burn underneath his skin – an itching, crawling torment that set his teeth on edge and filled his muscles with lank heat.

With clumsy fingers, he jabbed into the emaciated layer of muscle and gripped the skeletal curve of its straining ribs, wrenching the creature free and pitching it off of him. He must have cried out, a curse or a prayer maybe, because he caught a glimpse of brown eyes and a sanguine-stained muzzle before a gunshot echoed through the tent and the beast was no more.

'Bloody hell, John!' Murray's voice thickened with panic amidst the rush of other personnel. Most went to the animal to ensure it was dead, but some came to his side, applying pressure and talking in hasty voices. A needle darted into his flesh, and his teeth rattled around his stammer of protest.

'Vaccine,' Murray said quickly. 'It works better the sooner we get it in you.'

'Rabies?' John managed, but that was more than a simple shot. His scattered mind couldn't make sense of it, too soaked in adrenaline and fear.

Murray's expression darkened with pity, and he shifted aside to let John get a better look at what had sunk its fangs into him: too big to be just a wolf. 'Lycanthropy.' He dropped his voice. 'It's too thin to be one of our Mactiri. It's probably a rogue that got hungry.'

John shuddered, his stomach rolling as spasms echoed outwards from the shredded skin at his back. He could hear words, surprising ones, like “superficial” and “no long-term damage”, but they barely registered. He was too busy staring at the animal's eyes. He did not know what he expected, but it wasn't that.

It wasn't the humanity he could see in that extinguished gaze.

**********

'Comfortable?' The nurse, Nicola, smiled at him, bright and friendly with familiar promise. They'd had some good times together a while back, and there was still an ember there, but it was not one John intended to give new life. The bite was healing, the bruises had all but faded, and his quarantine was almost up.

'I'm bored.' He flicked the pages of his book meaningfully, watching her sympathetic smile.

'A couple of days, and you'll be cleared for duty again,' she promised. 'If you've not shown signs of the transformation by now, then you're not likely to.' She nodded to the other stuff on the table beside him, leaflets and documents: research. 'Been looking into it, have you?'

'I've got nothing better to do.' John shrugged, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in the spindly chair with a sigh. 'You can't get this far in life and not be aware of the Mactiri. For god's sake, half the people I stitch back up can transform. It works in their favour. They heal a damn sight faster, and they don't tend to get shot as often in the first place, but –'

'But they're born, not made.' Nicola nodded in understanding, perching on the edge of the single bed. 'Everyone's so shocked. If this happened back home, it would be all over the news. Being _bitten_?' She sounded scandalised, her voice little more than a whisper. 'They think it, he, was mad. The one that got you. Starving and insane. Everyone who knows anything about Mactiri is aware that attacking a human is just – it's – it's _unspeakable_!'

'It happens,' John pointed out. 'Not just out here, but back in England. Back before the drugs were available –' He cut himself off. 'Well, I'd be facing a new life, wouldn't I? They say those that are bitten are unstable – dangerous. They're even called something different, aren't they?'

'Faolchu,' Nicola supplied, the word clumsy on her tongue. Not entirely alien, but not mundane, either.

'God knows what would have happened to me,' he murmured.

'Well, don't worry.' She reached out, giving his knee a squeeze with a sparkle in her eye. 'Two more days, just to be safe, and you'll be given the all-clear.'

John smiled, his eyes clinging to her departing figure before he tipped back his head. Two more days. He could deal with that.

**********

They should have kept him in quarantine.

God, they should have put him down when they had the chance.

John pursed his lips in a thin line of papery skin, trying to ignore the remembered bloom of blood across his tongue. His eyes burned in their sockets and his bones turned molten with fever. His skin itched beneath the glaring white bulwark of the bandage that was wrapped around his torso and shoulder. A bullet in the joint, nerve damage, infection...

Despite the medicine he had been given, the lycanthropy pathogen had taken hold, latching onto his DNA and creating the protein that turned him into this.

Not John any more.

Except he was. That was what made it so much worse. He couldn't remember much of what happened. Screaming. Crying. Friendly fire to put a stop to it because there were right and wrong ways to kill insurgents.

If they were insurgents at all. Everyone he asked somehow couldn't meet his eye while they gave their reassurances. Had they been armed, those people he'd gone for? Had they been men, or was it a village? Women and children?

John's stomach clenched, the pain below his navel radiating outwards as he struggled not to vomit at the thought. Perhaps it would not be so appalling if his memories were entirely blank, but they weren't. They may be hazed by drugs and panic, but it had not been an animal in control. It had been him. He was the presence inside the wolf's head. He had relished the flex of strong muscles and the squat ferocity of his new frame. Other people saw a monster, but guiltily, John remembered feeling like a god.

It terrified him, that revenant of recollection. Everything else he could pretend was a dream, but his own emotions betrayed him. He should be horrified, broken up and torn down by the torture of the transformation. It should have been the end, not a new dawn born in brutality.

The door to his room opened and John turned his aching head, surveying his commanding officer, MacKenzie. Tall, distinguished and, beneath the cologne he wore, reeking of a Mactire. A few weeks ago, John wouldn't have had a clue. Now it was impossible to miss, and he tried not to cringe or cower as he lay in shattered repose.

'Captain Watson.'

'Sir,' John managed, glad he was sensate, rather than lost beneath the ravages of a rotting bullet-wound. Mactiri were supposed to heal quickly. For God's sake, they were harder to hurt in the first place. Except that the drug that should have saved him from all this had worked against him. It weakened his wolf-state, and that meant the bullet his own men fired to bring him down had done more damage than anyone intended. 'I'd salute, but –' He left the sentence hanging, orphaned and bitter, closing his eyes as he received a nod of comprehension.

'We need to discuss your future.'

'What future?' It escaped him on a huff of laughter, insubordinate, but John could not bring himself to care. It was a valid question. He had been a damn good surgeon and a fine soldier. Now his hand shook beneath the burden of the injury in his shoulder, and every tremor signed the death warrant on his chosen career. If he were still able to stitch people up, there might have been a place for him here, even in his new form.

Mactiri had a tendency to gravitate towards organisations with strong hierarchy, where their talents could be put to blissful use. That was for those born to it, though. Their DNA coded from day one to produce the same proteins the virus had gifted to John. He did not fit into that echelon. Not by a long-shot. He wasn't like them. He was Faolchu.

'You'll be granted an honourable discharge, pension and support both physical and psychiatric for what's happened to you,' MacKenzie explained, as stoic as ever. 'You're going home.'

John swallowed, hating those words. Home wasn't back in England's dreary, dismal climes. Home for him was here amidst friends, with a true, solid purpose. One night and that had all been taken from him. He should be grateful. The army was letting him go when they could just as well have locked him up or disposed of him entirely: a threat to his men.

'I killed people,' he whispered. 'Not with a gun or a weapon, but with my teeth. I killed them.'

MacKenzie bowed his head. 'You did,' he said quietly, an acknowledgement of the taste of iron that lingered in John's mouth. 'You will be assessed and monitored. Primary transformations are – they can be challenging. Mactiri learn as they grow. You have not had that blessing. For a human adult to suffer infection and then undergo transformation is rare, more-so since the advent of the vaccine. It is not something to be taken lightly, but with time you'll come to terms with it.' He straightened his shoulders, a hair away from giving him an order. 'You're a strong man, Captain Watson. I am certain you'll adapt.'

'So that's it then?' John asked, ignoring the way his voice caught in his throat but knowing it was heard all the same. For God's sake, MacKenzie could probably smell the grief on him, the same way the thick odour of discomfort radiated from the older man's weathered skin and assaulted John's newly sensitive nose.

'That's it, Captain.'

  **********

John loved London. It was vital in a way that seemed to pass the rest of the country by. Here, England sloughed its rural façade and the grime of the post-industrial North, settling instead into something both ancient and futuristic. The tang of civilisation blended with the relatively new patina of car fumes, all overlaid on the constant scent of water. It filled the air and soil, just as it carved its way through the landscape in the arcing serpentine of the Thames.

After the desert, the city was akin to life itself.

It was his anchor. The world was cast in shades of grey, but that vivid fragrance was like glassy steel in a realm of muted, matte tones, and John clung to it as tightly as he did his gun. They were like the two faces of a coin: the river and its metropolis beyond the walls of his bedsit – the glisten of possibility. Then there were the barricades of his self-imposed confinement and the gleam of the pistol.

Every night he woke from nightmares, ferrous-tongued and panting, retching on the sharp cocktail of fear and wonder at what he could become. Even now, it was not so much his actions that tormented him, but how he had felt, unrestrained and triumphant. It was as if the rest of his life had been a prelude to finding the hide that fit over his skin, and that thought made him sick down to his soul. That creature was not him. It _wasn't_. He had transformed once, by accident, and that was the result: the dead and dying, and him unstoppable by anything other than a bullet in his flesh.

Every morning he considered that possibility. Stopping himself. Not suicide, not really. A mercy killing. Euthanasia of a sort. After all, what did he have left? Nothing but his curse to carry around the grim drabness of his uneventful days. Yet he never pulled the trigger. He still craved the life he'd had, the determination he'd possessed, and something within him wouldn't let him give up this fight.

At least not yet.

His therapist told him to write a blog, all the while encouraging him to take steps towards accepting his changed status: no longer standard human, but a bi-morph, just like twelve percent of the population.

'Except not,' John muttered in the pre-dawn gloom, staring at his uneaten apple as he slid the gun back into its place. There were a fair few Mactiri about, even outside the army, but they weren't like him. He might not be the world-expert, but he could tell he was different. He detected it every time he came across a Mactire: a prickling sense of division and uncertainty. They'd glance at him, a grimace curling their lips and their eyes flaring with pity as they took him in: a creature forged in trauma.

Filthy Were.

The slur arose in his mind, sharp and savage. He used it, once, when he was a teenager. The target had been a bully, and he still remembered how white the kid's face had gone; the perverse thrill at seeing that reaction even as squeaks of outrage escaped his peers. Weres were monsters of fantasy, half-man, half-wolf creatures that answered the call of the moon and their own, cruel natures. Mactiri.... weren't.

Oh, there were parallels. No one could deny that. They turned into wolves, after all. Ones with human intelligence and, supposedly, morals, but it had nothing to do with the stages of the moon. They could change when they wanted. There were whispers of unspoken rules and unwritten laws, one of which was that no Mactire or Faolchu should ever bite a human.

Except it happened. He was living proof of that.

John clenched his hand where it rested against his knee, registering the rasp of human skin and blunt fingernails. No fur. No claws. Just a nose that could pick up a dodgy curry three miles away and eyes that had a terrible tendency to track small moving objects. He'd taken an unreasonable and embarrassing dislike to cats, which had only earned his apathy in the past. Next thing he knew he'd be chasing fucking cars.

With a shake of his head, he got to his feet, his meagre breakfast untouched as he clothed his body and leant his weight on his cane, his fingers shivering on the handle when his leg twinged. He couldn't stay here, amidst beige walls bleeding boredom. Instead he headed out into the city – his slender lifeline – limping onwards.

What other choice was there?

**********

It was a day like any other, but wasn't that always the way? The wheel of fortune turned anew, and an unremarkable life slipped along a different path.

Regent's Park was a conventional stretch of land, lush and green, the air damp and chill against John's skin. A friendly man sitting on a bench called his name, his cherubic face alive with joy despite the awkwardness of slow recognition and painful realisations. Sympathy gleamed in Mike's eyes when John mentioned getting shot, but it was different. It was sorrow for the thieving bullet, not the bastard of a bite: the other, secret scar under John's shirt.

'Couldn't Harry help?' It wasn't really a question. Even after all these years, Mike knew the answer. John had seen his sister once since he got back. It had been hell. She was his sibling still, but now she reeked of poison and rot. Alcohol was the treble in her symphony of decay and John could barely stomach the stink of her: another Watson on the way out.

'Yeah, like _that's_ going to happen.'

'Could you get a flat-share or something?'

John huffed, his humour blackened at its edges. 'Come on – who'd want me for a flatmate?'

Mike tilted his head, a smile perched on his lips as he shrugged. 'You know, you're the second person to ask me that today.'

John stared. Senses, already sharpened by what happened had to him, focussed on Mike. It was as if something deep in his primitive hind-brain knew that this was a fork in his road.

One that could save his life.

'Who –?' He swallowed, because a touch of a growl lingered in his voice which Mike, gentle and human, wouldn't read as anything but threatening. That wasn't it, not at all. It was excitement. Adrenaline: a sharp surge John didn't understand. 'Who was the first?'

**********

He limped through the corridors of Bart's in Mike's shadow, trying to fight the magnetised pull that sang in his veins. Peripherally, he was aware of the changes to this once familiar place: fresh paint and high-tech labs, but the sights and sounds were overwhelmed by the aromas. There was the stress of the medical students, the bouquet of chemicals that imbued the walls and floor and, faintly, something else – known to him and yet strange all at once.

Wolf. John knew it the moment he stepped into the room, and a _frisson_ of alarm shot through him as he glanced in Mike's direction. Had he sensed it on John and thought the pairing would work, or was it just coincidence?

There was no obvious answer in Stamford's honest face, and John kept his distance, abruptly unwilling to step into what was undoubtedly this man's territory. He might not own the place, but it fit around him as perfectly as the immaculate lines of the suit which he wore.

John felt gauche and awkward, but that didn't stop him from staring. His sense of smell may have taken front and centre stage since his transformation, but he still had eyes to appreciate the artful fall of dark chestnut curls in stark contrast to ivory skin. This man did not possess the unhealthy pallor of a confined academic, but a natural, radiant complexion, somewhat drained by the harsh fluorescent light. His large, graceful hands were competent on the equipment he was using, frozen in mid-motion as he surveyed John in turn.

It was stupid to expect amber irises filling the space from one eyelid to the other, or the prick of sharp canines beyond the defined shape of the stranger's mouth, but John looked for them anyway. Not that he needed to. Just because there were no obvious signs of what he was in his features, that did not mean there was no hint of a predator's captivation in the man's gaze: an intensity which made John's skin buzz in anticipation.

Power. Danger. Control. A triumvirate visible in the lines of the man's body and the set of his shoulders: bold and dominant. There was an air of defiant solidarity, a disregard for hierarchy, and John's nostrils flared as he took in the fragrance of the room again. Nothing he sensed was crass or raw, but there was a subtle tenor that he had missed before, one that made his heart thud.

Not just a wolf, but a wolf like him.

Faolchu, not Mactire.

Bitten, not born.

Then he spoke, asking Mike for his phone in a deep, educated voice. John had enough time to register the imperiousness of it before he realised he was offering his own mobile in response. Their fingers did not touch as it left his grasp, each of them staying to either end of the device. However, the distance was not enough to neutralise the aura of promise that arrowed down John's arm and warmed the hollow that had grown beneath his ribs since departing from the desert.

'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

John blinked, his breath arrested somewhere deep in his chest as the man looked at him again, and this time it was neither humanity nor the beast that caught his attention – it was the painful gleam of a razor-sharp mind. 'I'm sorry?' he managed, wheezing the question, but it didn't matter: a response, it seemed, was unnecessary. A young woman – human, John's nose noted absently – entered with some coffee, which the man took with barely any acknowledgement, surveying John over the rim of the cup as he continued to speak.

'I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?' He raised an eyebrow, elegant and aristocratic. 'Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.'

John went to speak, but couldn't work out what to say first. He was torn between asking how the hell he knew about the war, and the slightly more hysterical assertion that violin and days of silence were certainly not the worst aspects of this man's existence. Did transforming into a wolf not deserve a mention?

What came out in the end was a growling question, one which made Mike shift uncomfortably, but did not faze the man who held John's attention in the slightest. 'Who said anything about flatmates?'

'I did.' He reached behind him, picking up an expensive-looking coat and shrugging it onto his slender shoulders. 'I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man for whom to find a flatmate, and now he turns up with you: a soldier newly returned from Afghanistan. Hardly a huge leap to the obvious conclusion.'

John shifted his grip on the cane, leaning forward automatically, almost itching to stop this man in his tracks – to prevent him from _leaving_ , which was clearly his imminent intention. 'How did you know about Afghanistan?'

Infuriatingly, he got no straight answers, just a cast-off comment about a central London location and a cool quirk of a smile that John inwardly – and with a hint of nervous laughter – would have described as wolfish. 'So that's it?' he demanded as the man turned to go. 'We've just met and we're going to look at a flat together?'

Silver eyes met his, unapologetic. 'Problem?'

John glanced at Mike, out of his depth and not amused by Stamford's apparent attempts to bite back a smile. 'We don't know anything about each other. You've not even told me the address of the flat, or your name, for that matter.'

The man stilled, that boundless energy somehow contained until John was the only thing in its focus. 'I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. You’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. You have a therapist who believes your limp is psychosomatic – she's right, I'm afraid.' He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and just looked, his silence far more telling than his words as John filled in what wasn't being said. Things about fur and fangs and death in the desert. 'That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?'

John found himself on the receiving end of a grin and wink as that resonant voice added, 'The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.'

A moment later, he was gone.

Air whistled between John's lips as he emerged from the spellbinding effect of the stranger's – Holmes' – presence. He straightened up, staring at the empty doorway before turning to Mike. 'Did you tell him about me?' he asked, waving a vague hand in confusion when his old friend shook his head.

'Not a word. That's just how he is.' Stamford raised his eyebrows. 'What do you reckon? Think he could solve your problem?'

Mike was talking about staying in London, about four strong walls and a roof over his head for a price he could afford. However, John's mind lingered on other things, from the emptiness that had haunted him since he was shot to the new reality that dogged his footsteps.

'You know what? I think he might.'

**********

'You've got questions.' Sherlock settled back in the seat of the taxi. 

'You could say that, yeah.' John paused, his thoughts racing through the pantheon of queries that were stacked in his mind. He wasn't sure what to make of any of it. There was Mrs Hudson, the landlady, who looked at them both with a wicked smile and asked whether they'd be needing two bedrooms; the flat in Baker Street, which was in a perfect location but could have been tidier; the unexpected arrival of a Mactire policeman called Lestrade, who had blinked at John in unmasked shock before begging Sherlock to assist with the suicides investigation...

Then there was Sherlock himself, intriguing and strange. His demeanor called to some deep-buried instinct, and try as he might, John couldn’t ignore it.

'You're a private detective of some sort,' he managed, deciding to begin with something mundane, 'but the police don't ask for help from amateurs.'

Sherlock's lips curved in a not-quite smile. ' _Consulting_ detective. I invented the job.'

'And you, what? Solve crimes by looking at people? Your website said you could tell a computer programmer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.'

'And I can read your service record in a glance and your family life in your mobile phone.' Sherlock shrugged, meeting John's eye in an unspoken challenge.

'Go on then.' John angled his body towards Sherlock as he dragged his phone from his pocket and held it out. 'Tell me.'

Within a minute, he was rapt. At first glance, what Sherlock did was magical – inexplicable – but gradually John realised that, like any illusion, the answer was visible if you chose to look. Sherlock read the story of other people's lives in the minutiae of their appearance: tan lines and the scratches on possessions. There were incorrect assumptions, like Harry being his brother, but somehow the small flaws made it all the more real. Ingenious, but not perfect, much like the man himself.

Sherlock paused, his head cocked attentively. Later, when he knew him better, John would see the gesture for what it was: a moment of uncharacteristic consideration as he debated whether to carry on or tactfully restrain himself. However, John attributed nothing special to the behaviour and simply waited as Sherlock's tone quietened, softer now, as if expecting a blow for his efforts.

'You were bitten in Afghanistan: a rogue. They vaccinated immediately and, judging from the military's response, it appeared successful. So much so that, after mandatory quarantine, you returned to duty, where the medication's slow failure manifested. You were triggered to transform.'

John froze, a deer caught in the headlights of Sherlock's scrutiny, but he did not try and block out the words. Instead he allowed them to flay him open, bloody and broken beneath the cadence of Sherlock's voice.

'It was traumatic, hence the therapist, though you may have been given one anyway, considering the drastic change of lifestyle. Clouded by the conflict of the preventative drug and the bi-morph proteins still present in your body, you were more animal than most would expect, and you had to be neutralised: friendly fire. Accelerated healing was compromised, so you suffered a slower, less complete recuperation culminating in your honourable discharge. You've not transformed since.'

John bit his tongue, his mood oscillating between alarm that he was so easy to read, and acknowledgement that his fear was probably unfounded. He doubted that anyone in the world other than Sherlock could have looked at him and seen all that, his accuracy as chilling as it was breath-taking.

'How –?' He looked down at his hands, his clothes, his shoes, trying to take in what Sherlock had observed that gave away such precise information. 'How did you know?'

'If you'd been bitten anywhere but a war-zone, the reporters would have a field day. It's too taboo to escape the media's eye. Rogues are more common in areas torn by conflict. You're RAMC; front-line duty is limited therefore you're likely to have been attacked on base, with witnesses and access to the vaccine. Anything but immediate administration would be medical malpractice. Quarantine is standard.'

'What about the rest of it?' John asked. 'The transformation and all that.'

'It's in your scent.' Sherlock admitted that fact as if relying on such input was a personal failing, but John hardly noticed, too intent on the other man's words. It was the first time he had vocalised anything to do with the information that John could detect so readily in the blend of hormones and fragrances that emanated from Sherlock's skin.

'That obvious is it?'

'Only to other bi-morphs. Humans don't have the nose for it. It's your fragrance: the dichotomy of infection and the fading signature of inoculation chemicals provide a firm foundation for the rest of my conclusions.' He blinked, releasing a sigh before he continued. 'You and your colleagues were unprepared for your primary change and rash action was required. A brother-in-arms would not have shot to kill, but would have known incapacitation was essential, so the wound was neither to your core body, nor was it peripheral.'

Sherlock turned to look out of the window, his shoulders rounded as if he was bracing himself for an unfavourable response. 'You were dangerous, and those around you did not have the necessary knowledge to assist you without causing you harm.'

John took a deep breath, trying to identify the mire of emotion that churned in his gut. Some of it was anger and shame; he had been acquainted with Sherlock for barely a day and already he seemed to know everything, though he had not mentioned the killings. John was not sure whether that was deliberate or simply one aspect that he could not deduce.

However, there was also a different feeling, something that made tentative warmth pulse along his veins. Since he had changed, John found himself the victim of pitying looks and awkward silences. No one, beyond the probing questions of his therapist, had spoken about what he was or how it happened. No one acted like they understood.

Except Sherlock, who was frankly –

'Amazing.' The word slipped from John's lips unbidden, but once it was free he wouldn't call it back for the world. Perhaps he should fear that Sherlock would judge him, but instead he felt lighter than he had in weeks. Hopeful and alive, as if someone had peeled a mask from his face. 'That was – _amazing_.'

Sherlock's twitch of surprise was telegraphed along the seat they shared. It was also written in his scent, a kaleidoscope of nuances John did not yet know how to read, but earnestly hoped he'd one day understand.

'That's not what people normally say,' he murmured, casting John a suspicious glance.

'What do they normally say?'

'“Piss off”.'

The laughter startled him, an iridescent bubble that popped in his stomach, joined by Sherlock's deeper, subdued chuckle as the cab wound its way towards Brixton and the waiting crime-scene. His mirth, absent for so long, was almost shocking, and something shifted under his ribs, loosening an iron-clad fist of misery.

His smile refused to fade, and as the taxi pulled up to the police cordon, John lifted his chin. Sherlock had deduced everything about him, from the mundane to the morose. Maybe he couldn't read Sherlock's life story in the cut of his suit, but there was plenty to learn. Perhaps now he would have the chance to discover more about this enigmatic man.

**********

The fragrance of Angelo's assailed John's nose, fuelling the fire of his hunger as he tried not to raven his lasagne. The plate brimmed with succulent ground meat, and the herbs and other accoutrements were subtle rather than overwhelming.

Since the change, so many foods seemed unappealing at best. Now, every flavour was piquant across his tongue, and his stomach ached with appreciation. The sensation distracted him from the faint unease that lingered over the proprietor’s – Angelo, human through-and-through – belief that he was Sherlock's date.

Not that the assumption was unfavourable. Sherlock was a physically attractive man: long, lean lines and an exotic edge to his features that set him apart from the general populace. However, people seemed to believe that, for whatever reason, of everyone he could have, Sherlock would choose John. Even as a Faolchu, he was pretty much the embodiment of ordinary. If it weren't for the fact he needed a flatmate, John doubted Sherlock would look at him twice.

Yet there was something about the way everyone behaved when they saw him with Sherlock, a kind of stunned curiosity, as if they were unused to seeing anyone in his company. The humans – Angelo, Mrs Hudson, the ominous man in the car park – decided they were lovers. The Mactiri...

'You confused them.' Sherlock's voice interrupted his thoughts, making him look up from his half-finished meal. He was staring out of the window, poised and predatory as he waited for the murderer John had texted to make an appearance. 'Lestrade and his men.'

'Yeah.' John nodded, pulling a face. 'I got that.' There had been the initial flare of shock as the various Mactiri on the squad – and there were several – realised what he was. However, that was quickly subsumed by their disbelief that he appeared to be with Sherlock.

One, a pretty sergeant with a not-so-dazzling personality had gaped at him, a frown cinching her brow. She had reluctantly held up the cordon, pursing her lips before warning him off.

_'He gets off on it you know, and one day it won't be enough. We'll be standing around a body, and it will be Sherlock Holmes who put it there.'_

However, considering Sherlock's merciless insinuations about the Mactire sergeant and the human Forensics lead, maybe the attempt at character assassination wasn't so unexpected. 'They didn't seem concerned by you, though, what you are, I mean. Just that someone was with you.'

'I tend to work alone,' he replied absently, one elbow balanced on the table where a full plate would be. John had only seen Sherlock consume the cup of coffee in the lab, and he'd spent a fair bit of time in his company since. Didn't the man ever get hungry?

'No girlfriend?' John asked, scooping another piece of lasagne into his mouth and sensing, like the flash of cool moonlight across his skin, the moment when Sherlock's gaze shifted to take him in.

'Not really my area,' came the smooth reply, and a spark prickled along John's spine.

'Oh, boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way.'

'I know it's fine,' Sherlock said, and there was a hint in his expression of something torn between amusement and curiosity. What was conspicuously absent was anything like defensiveness. It was as if he honestly did not care what anyone might think of him. 'I don't have a boyfriend.'

'Oh, right, so you're single, like me.' The words escaped John before he had a chance to censor them, and he detected the exact moment when the atmosphere changed, closing off. Though the step back Sherlock took was metaphorical, John sensed the distance all the same and silently cursed himself.

'John, while I'm flattered by your interest...'

'No, I –' He set his fork down, holding up a finger. 'I wasn't – I didn't – I wasn't asking like that.' He brutally ignored the quiet flare of mortified disappointment deep in his gut. _Christ_ – he had only known Sherlock for a day and he didn't need to get entangled with his potential flatmate of all people. It would be a disaster in the making. 'I just meant that it's fine. It's _all_ fine.'

Quickly, he looked away, unable to bring himself to meet Sherlock's gaze again. He concentrated on his dinner, his eyes affixed to his plate even as his other senses remained attuned to the man across from him. That was how he noticed when lethargic surveillance turned into pointed interest.

'That's him.' Sherlock jerked his head towards a black cab idling at the kerb. 'A taxi. Clever. Why's that clever?' He frowned as if querying his mental process, only to blink as John strained around to take a better look. 'Don't stare.'

'You're staring.'

'We can't both stare.'

John grinned as the lingering tension dispersed, twisting into something full of delicious anticipation as Sherlock's back straightened and his chin lifted, his pale gaze intent on the ebony vehicle. In the blink of an eye, he was moving, grabbing his scarf and coat as he rose to his feet, every movement efficient. John followed suit, clumsy in his haste not to be left behind as Sherlock hurried out of the door.

Acrid car exhaust coated the air, which was filled with the rumbling, timorous hum of engines. John squinted, craning his neck to observe the passenger. The man was examining the buildings around him, agitated and suspicious. However, before either John or Sherlock so much as moved, the rear lights flared and the taxi pulled away, merging into the homogeneous flow of traffic.

Sherlock darted forward, skimming over the bonnet of a car as John was left to follow, his apologies half-drowned by the angry blare of car horns. He attempted to memorise the cab number as it sailed away, the digits blazing through his mind even as he trotted to a halt at Sherlock's side.

The taller man's fingers flew to his temples and his eyes squeezed shut. At first, Sherlock's grimace appeared to be one of despair, but John didn't need to look twice to realise it was concentration. Street names and directions tumbled from Sherlock's lips in a babbled incantation, and before John could gasp a query, he was off, his long legs sprinting and his coat a whirl in his wake.

There was nothing conscious in John's decision to follow. He simply did, obeying a primal imperative he didn't dare question. The song of heat in the bunch and flex of his muscles was a relief, as if he shed weight with every step. His boots created a stampede of rhythm, and every breath that swelled his lungs was deep and purposeful as he found his stride.

It should have been a fog of colour and motion, but John was acutely aware of his surroundings: the coolness of the night air and the sound of cars. Shouts and squealing tyres bombarded him before the symphony of shoes on metal interrupted the din. Ahead of him, Sherlock lunged up a fire-escape and onto the rooftops, his feet a blur as he led the way.

London's perfume was miasmic: chemicals mixed with the plethora of foods being cooked in bars and restaurants, underscored by the odour of ever-present decline. John's vision became blinkered, narrowing his field of view to the man in front of him as they darted and jumped, cutting a new path through the tangle of the metropolis. It was dangerous, and insane, and amidst all his concentration on the physical, John realised he had never felt more alive, not even back in a war-zone.

Ahead, Sherlock half-climbed, half-leapt back down to ground level. John hardly noticed the chill of the ladder beneath his hands as he followed, his knees bending to take the impact before he was off again, lunging out into the road as the taxi skidded to a halt. Sherlock almost tore the door open, an ID gleaming in his hand as he scowled at the occupant in disbelief.

'No, no! This is all wrong. The tan, the teeth. Californian, am I right?' He gestured to the suitcase at the man's feet. 'Just arrived.'

The hapless passenger gave a dumb nod, and John sucked in a breath, almost choking on it as Sherlock said, 'Everything all right is it? Good. Welcome to London.' He slammed the door shut, scowling as if he was entertaining the notion that they'd followed the wrong taxi.

'Not our man?' John asked.

'Tourist. No one who lived here would let a cab take them the long way around.'

'So not a murderer then?' John crooked a grin, glancing over his shoulder and uttering a curse as he saw the car stopped a short distance away, the passenger pointing them out to a couple of police officers on the beat. 'Uh, Sherlock?'

Sherlock followed his gaze before looking back at John. His eyes shone as the thrill of the chase glowed in his face. 'Got your breath back?'

John gave a bright laugh. 'Ready when you are.'

Their feet barely touched the ground as they raced through London's knotted alleyways, crossing wide streets like ghosts and stirring up abandoned newspapers as they passed. Perspiration dampened John's back and beaded his brow. His lips were dry, and his heart drummed out a hallelujah in the base of his throat. His mind was fixed on nothing but the absolute rightness of speeding through the city, and by the time he and Sherlock fell through the front door of Baker Street, they were gasping and laughing, high on the adrenaline.

John's body was one gigantic pulse, throbbing and dancing to exhilaration’s beat. His nerves shimmered and jumped, and the musk of him and Sherlock, slick with sweat and joy, mingled into a volatile cocktail that he could practically taste, smoky and delicious at the back of his throat.

'That –' he managed. 'That was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I've ever done.'

'And you invaded Afghanistan.' Sherlock chuckled, his head rolling on the wall to look at John. Their eyes met, and John's stomach swooped in a shameless flip of delight. It made him think back to the restaurant, to his protests that he wasn't coming on to Sherlock: it seemed that was a lie. Maybe he hadn't done it deliberately, but that didn't change this: the hum in his veins where pursuing and pursued changed into a different kind of game all together.

One that Sherlock had declined.

Swallowing tightly, John tore his eyes away, shaking his head as he pinned a smile back on his face. It was just the run, that was all, emotions running high and all that. It was easy to confuse elation with lust. 'Why aren't we back at Angelo's?' he asked. 'Keeping an eye out?'

'They'll inform me if anything comes up. It was a long-shot anyway.'

'So what are we doing here?'

'Passing the time.' Sherlock's gaze swept down to John's boots and back up again before he cocked his head and lifted one eyebrow. 'Proving a point.' A knock echoed through the hallway, and John frowned. 'You might as well answer it; it's for you.'

Warily, he moved, glancing back at Sherlock's watchful form before doing as he was told. Pulling aside the dark door to 221, he blinked at Angelo. The boisterous man was standing at the threshold, a grin on his lips. 'Sherlock texted me,' he admitted. 'Said you might be needing this.'

John stared at the cane in the man's grasp, undoubtedly his, the crutch that had helped him limp through the days and weeks after returning from the war. He'd never been without it, let alone had it slip his mind so readily. Now it lay in Angelo's palms, and John's thigh trembled with an echo of pain. Yet his limb didn't give out, and he refused to surrender to it as he straightened his back and shook his head in disbelief.

With rough thanks, he took it from Angelo's grasp, watching the man throw a wink at Sherlock and amble away. Wordlessly, John looked over his shoulder, taking in Sherlock's smile. There were hints of satisfaction at its edge – delight at being proven right – but John still answered it with one of his own, trying to get his head around this man and everything he could do.

'Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock called, his voice loud in the evening's calm. 'Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs.' He lifted an eyebrow as if daring John to protest, but how could he deny it? He couldn't turn his back on this, on Baker Street and the man who dwelt within its walls.

Not when, for the first time since setting foot on England's soil, John felt like he'd come home.


	2. Chapter 2

 

'You need to change.'

John's fingers paused in their clumsy attempt to compose his latest blog post. He glanced at the jumper he was wearing, wondering if he'd managed to spill breakfast down his front, but the striped wool was as clean and unremarkable as ever.

'Not your clothes.' Sherlock sighed. He was almost invisible to John from this angle, hidden by the back of the couch. Only the crown of his head and his bare toes, wriggling idly, were visible at each end. 'Your body. You need to transform.'

'Ah, no.' John shook his head, trying to concentrate on what he was doing as his stomach clenched. 'I know you're bored without a case and everything, but I'm not one of your experiments. I'm fine how I am, thanks.'

There was a huff from the direction of the sofa, and Sherlock sat up, his pale eyes narrowed in annoyance and the blue silk robe slipping off his shoulder. It was infuriating how he could look good, even in such a state of dishabille. 'You've shared this flat with me for more than eight weeks. Factoring in convalescence time and the days between you coming home and meeting me, you're encroaching on four months without a change. Inadvisable, to say the least.'

John breathed a harsh sigh through his nose, chewing his lip as he glared over the top of his laptop screen. 'Why? I think I'd know if it was killing me. I'm fine, Sherlock.'

He watched as his flatmate unfolded himself from the couch. He had yet to bother getting dressed for the day, but that did not mean his mind wasn't working at full tilt. Worse, in the absence of a puzzle to occupy him, Sherlock focussed all that power of thought on John, hawk-like in his scrutiny.

He was used to it by now, his appearance being catalogued and disseminated for Sherlock's perusal. More than one person had expressed their amazement at his ability to share a flat with him, from Lestrade – amused and benevolent in the tentative friendship that was forming between them – to Mycroft, who claimed to have Sherlock's best interests at heart. John answered their queries with smiles and pat phrases, because he wasn't sure how he could explain it to them.

Yes, Sherlock was rude and abrasive, brilliant and chilly. He either lacked understanding of social graces or didn't care about them, and the unhygienic experiments in the kitchen were one in a string of bad habits, but John could deal with that. He would take Sherlock as he was, eccentric and intense, over some banal cohabitant who smiled at him in passing.

When it came down to it, he would rather be insulted and ignored and then invited to run at Sherlock's heels, high on adrenaline, than spend another moment existing as he had before he came to Baker Street.

Still, that didn't mean he was content to be treated like something in a Petri dish. John had stifled his questions about Sherlock's past in exchange for Sherlock avoiding the subject of John's bite and the consequences. Now, it seemed, the deal was off.

'You're irritable: short-tempered and ill-at-ease. Over the last two weeks you have awoken to joint ache of increasing severity which fades within an hour of breakfast. Your leg's causing you some difficulty, although not enough for you to require your cane. Your behaviour is beginning to take on a more reckless edge than the norm established over the course of our acquaintance, and your defensiveness of your perceived territorial frontiers has increased markedly.'

'Perceived territorial–?' John frowned in disbelief. 'Sherlock, you broke into my room at four in the morning and scared me half to death. I don't care if the experiment you were conducting did something weird and possibly dangerous. You should at least knock first. I could have shot you!'

'You didn't even reach for your gun,' Sherlock replied. 'Your response was instinctual. Teeth bared, defensive and antagonistic.' He paced over to John's side, bracing his hands on the desk and leaning into John's personal sphere. He had become used to Sherlock's complete disregard of boundaries, but this was deliberate, and John's scalp pricked as the hairs on his head quivered upright.

The musky scent of Sherlock's skin filled his nose, and John tensed against the desire to lunge forward. His jaw ached as his lips tried to pull back in a snarl, and he couldn't quite tell if his fingers wanted to curl into fists or weave themselves into Sherlock's clothes and drag him close. It was a vicious magnetism, where the temptation to fight or fuck was not as clear-cut as John would have liked.

Not that either was the way forward. This was Sherlock, his friend, and John was forced to repeat that mantra in the silence of his head as Sherlock drove his words home. 'If you continue to refuse to change, your health will deteriorate. The lycanthropy proteins will build up in your vital biological systems and eventually cause organ failure. You know that. You're a doctor.'

'There's not much medical proof of that claim,' John growled, turning in his chair and leaning forward as he defended his space. 'Besides, you've not transformed since I moved in.'

Sherlock's expression clearly conveyed that John was an idiot. 'Not while you're in the flat, no. I didn't want to risk the inevitable fall-out if you came home and found a wolf asleep on the sofa, but I still change at least once a week.' There was no time for John to express his surprise at Sherlock's thoughtfulness as he barrelled on.

'Detrimental accumulation can occur in less than a year. The longer you leave it, the less controlled your next transformation will be.' Sherlock shook his head. 'The chance of a repeat of what happened in Afghanistan increases with every passing day, and it's your mind that will suffer.'

'It already suffers!' John snapped, snatching in a startled breath at his confession. Sherlock's words had shaken him; he had always assumed he remained unaware of the deaths John had caused – had hoped he'd failed to deduce that nadir shadow of memory – but even if Sherlock had not been explicit, John could still see the knowledge of it in his features. 'How do you think I feel, knowing that's in me? Knowing that there's an animal desperate to get out?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'It's not a separate entity sharing your life. It's you. You can't pass off the blame to some bestial parasite. It doesn't exist!' He raised his voice as John surged to his feet, darting around Sherlock and reaching for his coat. 'You're not a wolf and you're not just human anymore. Whether you like it or not, John, you're Faolchú.'

John paused on the threshold, his heart hammering in the base of his throat as the word he'd come to hate fell from Sherlock's lips for the first time within his hearing. Except it was not the harsh, guttural sound he was used to, not the “Foul-Chew” that he had spoken himself and heard from others. Sherlock pronounced it differently, softer and sibilant, the syllables smoothed by the unmistakably Gaelic accent.

'A what?' John croaked, looking over his shoulder. He watched Sherlock blink where he stood by the desk, tense in a way John did not understand. He could almost believe it was genuine concern that painted Sherlock's face with its composition, but that wasn't the way he worked. No, this was about the puzzle of John's reluctance, nothing more.

'Faolchú,' he repeated at last, and there was something other-worldly about it when spoken in Sherlock's deep voice: a label John could almost bring himself to respect. 'The word's Irish in origin. It's been bastardised over the centuries into the kind of thing you and Lestrade say. A graceless bit of nomenclature for someone who transforms because they were bitten, rather than having a genetic predisposition for it.'

'I know what it means.' John's harsh voice echoed in the silence of the flat, and his hands tightened into fists. 'I know what I am, Sherlock. I'm the same as you.' He threw it out like a challenge, distaste inadvertently sharpening his words. 'It doesn't mean I have to like it.'

Whirling around, he headed down the stairs, intent on getting _out_ ; away from Sherlock and his merciless observations. He didn't need to transform. He was doing fine without it, and John fully intended to remain in his human shape for the rest of his natural life. Perhaps he would always be a carrier of the condition, but he sure as hell didn't have to give into its symptoms. He was his own master, in control of his own body.

Nothing could change that. Nothing.

**********

The pub was loud and carried within its walls the wonderful anonymity of a crowd. Cigarette fumes were a distant ghost to a human nose after years of a smoking ban, but the fragrance slammed through John's head, tar-laden and heavy. It mingled with the treble, acid scent of alcohol and human intoxication, and he breathed in as he nudged his way to the table where Greg was waiting.

It had become a habit of theirs. Nothing scheduled or regular, but they met up once or twice a week. At first, John had suspected pity, curiosity or a mixture of the two. Every other Mactire he met wasn't keen to socialise. However, as time passed, he realised Lestrade was a genuinely good bloke. He had to be, really. He put up with Sherlock invading his crime scenes, after all.

'Drink up,' Greg urged, nudging a glass in John's direction as he took a seat. 'You look like you need it. What was it this time? Eyeballs?'

'Fingers.' John gave a weary smile, too used to Sherlock's freakish experiments to be truly aggravated by the occasional gruesome and unexpected discovery. 'Ten of them, none from the same person, stuffed in a mug like flowers in a vase.'

'Christ,' Greg murmured, but there was a laugh behind it as he watched John drain the glass in a few hearty gulps. 'And I thought my day was bad. Want another?'

John agreed, and the conversation wended comfortably around the subjects they shared: cases, relationships, Sherlock and Lestrade's team. It was halfway through his third pint that Greg shifted, tipping his head down and watching John from beneath his brows. There was a trace of bleariness in his gaze, but it did nothing to subdue the foundation of common sense in his expression.

'What?' John asked, taking a sip of his drink. He recognised that look: it was the one that meant Greg was about to nudge at the edges of stuff they didn't discuss. The first time he'd seen that expression it had heralded an unapologetic query about whether he was shagging Sherlock. Not unexpected, maybe, but jarring all the same. He'd believed John's negative response. However, it had been the first in a number of sallies into things John did not, generally speaking, want to talk about.

Except it was easier with Greg, most of the time. He didn't judge, he just wanted the truth. He offered advice that was practical, if unimaginative, and John could at least admit that he appreciated Lestrade's lack of ulterior motive. He wasn't trying to one-up John or manipulate him. There was no hidden agenda. He genuinely cared, a fact John had come to appreciate after moving in with Sherlock.

'You look a bit peaky,' Greg muttered, draining his glass and propping his elbows on the table. 'How many times have you transformed since you were bitten?'

John sighed, setting his pint down with a clank. 'Bloody hell. Did Sherlock set you up to this?' He'd thought the matter had been dropped. It had been ten days since he'd stomped out of Baker Street to get away from the impossible man and everything he was saying. Now it seemed Lestrade had taken up the cause.

'Don't be daft. Sherlock doesn't tell me anything unless it's about a corpse at his feet.' Greg rubbed at the back of his neck, wincing as he slid one finger down the bridge of his own nose. 'John, I don't know what happened to you, and I won't pry, but this – pretending it doesn't matter – it's not going to be good for you in the long run.'

'If Sherlock didn't tell you, then how –?'

'A wolf who's not changed, any kind, Mactire or Faolchu, has the same smell about them. Not bad, just sort of, static.' He winced at the poor description. 'Not quite stagnant, but like a room full of still air. Humid. Expectant. Look, human language is crap at describing this shit, all right, but believe me, if one of my pack turned up smelling like you, they'd be off duty on medical grounds.'

John blinked at that, but he shied away from the prospect of what Greg was saying, focussing with ill-concealed amusement on one word that stood out. 'Pack?' he murmured, raising his eyebrows. 'I know humans make jokes about that kind of thing, but –' His mirth faded, banished by the sad shadow in Greg's eyes, as if John had revealed something to be pitied. 'What?'

'It's not a joke, not really. I'm not sure about Faolchu, you and Sherlock are the only ones I've met, but Mactiri have a natural tendency to form packs. Years ago, it was about families or communities. They'd develop a sort of – structure – if you like. You must have seen it in the army?'

'People behave different in military service,' John protested. 'We were all a bit like that. Brothers-in-arms or whatever. You have to be, because the bloke next to you could be the one who saves your arse.'

'Yeah, well, the same kind of thing occurs in a normal workplace. The relationships you form with your colleagues translate into something else when you're covered in fur. Sort of family-but-not. More than that.' Greg tapped his fingers on his empty glass, aggravated by his inability to explain what he meant. 'It's got its uses, too. It's well-documented that members of the same strong pack can communicate mind-to-mind.'

John stared, and his obvious surprise drew a bark of laughter from the man opposite. 'Well-documented among us lot, I mean,' he said, flicking his finger back and forth to indicate the two of them and their kind. 'It definitely happens in Mactiri, and I don't see why Faolchu should be any different.'

Greg shrugged, giving John a strained smile. 'What I'm trying to say is, there's more to it than changing into a wolf when you feel like it. For your own good, you might not want to turn your back on that. You're not on your own – some kind of outcast. You're – you're one of us.'

He wasn't sure whether Greg was referring to his team or the bi-morph populace as a whole. Part of him was still reeling over the telepathy revelation, because what the _hell_? However, it was Lestrade's assurances that had him narrowing his eyes, hollow anger flaring in the pit of his stomach.

'You,' he said, his voice dark and dangerous. 'You are the only Mactire who's had a conversation lasting more than two minutes with me since I was attacked.' John pursed his lips. 'Everyone else treats me like I've got leprosy. They can barely stand the sight of me. Even the others in your bloody _pack_.'

Greg bowed his head, tilting his chin to expose his throat. On a human, it was merely thoughtful, but some of John's anger, so close to the surface these days, was mollified at the sight. 'It's guilt.' Lestrade blinked, and there was no trace of a lie in his gaze. 'Any Mactire you come across can tell you were bitten, and that's – it's –' He made an aborted gesture, his skin waxy and his expression appalled. 'Bad. We spend so much time trying to drum it into people that we're not animals. That we're people in wolves' bodies, and then some fucking nut-job does something savage and –'

He trailed off, scrubbing his hands over his face. 'We can tell you've been through something awful without even asking, and we're sorry about it, but nothing we can do is adequate. Most of the time, we decide distance is the only option. I dunno.' He shook his head. 'We're appalled on your behalf and shit at dealing with it, all right?'

'Faolchu are meant to be different anyway,' John said with a shrug. 'Less stable or something.'

'That's rubbish.' Greg straightened in his chair. 'The only reason any Faolchu might be different mentally from a Mactire is because some god-forsaken animal sank their teeth into them and changed their lives forever. That's enough to mess anyone up a bit.' He put his empty glass to the side, wincing at the clock above the bar and getting to his feet. 'Damn, I've got to get moving.' He frowned, as if aggravated that he had finally managed to broach an important topic and now had to abandon it. John, on the other hand, harboured nothing but relief.

'Look, like I said, I can't pretend I understand why you're reluctant to change, but do yourself a favour?'

'What?'

'Find out everything you can about it. I don't mean leaflets or whatever. Talk to people. I'll help if I can with the general wolf stuff, but since you live with Sherlock, he might be able to give you more relevant information.' Lestrade grinned then, an honest-to-God human smile that reminded John of crude jokes and fun with the lads. 'I recommend you tap that resource.' His innuendo was shameless, and John rolled his eyes as Greg squeezed his good shoulder and paid their tab.

He watched the DI go, turning his words over in his mind. Lestrade was just trying to help. Like Sherlock, he believed that transforming was integral to John's existence, as if to allow his body to change would patch all the ills that had haunted him since Afghanistan.

Somehow, John doubted it would be that simple.

**********

'Yesterday, Greg said that Mactiri in a pack can talk to each other with their minds.' John leant against the door-frame, watching Sherlock work. He wasn't sure what made him search for confirmation, but the idea hadn't left him in peace since he had departed from the pub. 'Is it true?'

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope, his irises silver in the circles of light reflected by the eyepiece. John was still dressed in the raggy t-shirt and jogging bottoms he wore to bed, rumpled in the face of Sherlock's elegance, and he sighed, pushing himself away from the wall and heading for the kettle.

'Lestrade would gain nothing by lying to you,' Sherlock pointed out, abandoning the microscope in favour of giving John his full attention. There was a quick examination, almost cursory, before he spoke again. 'You're not disturbed by the idea. It intrigues you.'

John chucked tea bags into mugs, making one for Sherlock without asking. It was automatic, these days, born of a desire to make sure he stayed hydrated. That, and he got subtle pleasure from watching Sherlock's faint surprise at the thoughtfulness – as if no one had bothered to consider his needs before John arrived in his life.

'I didn't know. I mean, the Mactiri in the army were well-organised, but I thought that was training. I didn't realise they were communicating.'

'Current scientific theory posits it's an evolutionary imperative for Mac Tiré.' The words flowed from Sherlock's lips: a softer, accented version of the clumsy name John was used to. 'Those born with the ability survived more readily to a breeding age, hence the genetics behind the phenomenon became increasingly dominant with each passing generation.'

'Oh.' John frowned, embarrassed by the twinge of disappointment that echoed in his gut. 'So it's a genetic thing? Mactiri only?'

Sherlock stood up, opening the fridge and pulling out the milk before handing it to John, still watching him as if he were something intricate that he needed to unravel. 'You want to know if it's something you would experience if you found yourself in a pack structure?'

He expected Sherlock to sound scathing, as if the concept of community inherent in the word “pack” was repulsive. However, it was curiosity that lilted his voice, softer and more intimate than his usual, academic interest.

John shrugged. 'It seemed like a nice idea, that's all, but I guess it's not a Faolchu thing.'

'Wrong.' Sherlock's lips twisted in amusement as John looked up at him sharply, the two mugs of tea motionless in his hands. 'The pathogen that is transmitted to a human when they are bitten carries DNA sequences from the donor. These are spliced into the cells of the body as the infection progresses. As long as the attacker carried the telepathy genes, which is highly likely, then they would be passed on to the Faolchú victim.'

He settled in the chair opposite John, setting aside slides and nudging the microscope out of the way. 'It is the Faolchú social structure that impedes the process. Most Mactírí are uncomfortable in our presence, which precludes the development of the close relationships that would result in the formation of a pack. By necessity, if not nature, Faolchú are more prone to being independent. Lone wolves.'

John absorbed the information with a nod. It wasn't that people like him were incapable, they simply didn't get the chance. Mactiri were too unnerved to let them in, and Faolchu were uncommon since the vaccine's creation. You rarely saw two together. He and Sherlock were possibly unique in that respect.

An obvious question hovered on the tip of his tongue: _Could we be a pack, the pair of us?_ but something held him back. It was too intimate, revealing the burgeoning feelings of friend-comrade-ally-essential that had flourished since the beginning of their acquaintance. Sherlock led him over rooftops and breathed life into a dull existence. In return, John put a bullet in a cabbie who tempted Sherlock to risk everything in the name of proving himself right.

That had to mean something, didn't it?

'Within a strong pack, the telepathy can be put to use by those involved regardless of whether they are in human or wolf-form. However, it always initiates during the transformed state.' Sherlock watched him, inquisitive and intrigued. 'If you don't change, you'll never require the ability and it won't manifest.'

John leaned back in his chair, frowning down at his mug. It was one thing to be interested by the theory of what his wolf-form could do, but that did not stop the prickling discomfort that seeped through his veins at the thought of giving in.

'I can't.' His words were like bullets, sharp and decisive. 'I just – People died. No one would tell me if they were insurgents or civilians from the nearby village, but it didn't matter. I killed them anyway.' His voice quietened, bitter and small. 'And I took pleasure in it.'

Silence closed around them, undisturbed but for the natural sounds of the flat and London's streets beyond the walls. John swallowed convulsively, not daring to meet Sherlock's gaze as gelid waves washed through him.

'It was not the act of killing that you enjoyed. It was delight at your own strength and power,' Sherlock said softly. 'You experienced, either consciously or not, a need to protect yourself. The joy you felt when you first transformed was at your abilities, not your actions.'

'What do you know about it?' he spat, his head down as he glared at Sherlock. John's abrupt anger thrummed beneath his skin, yet Sherlock remained in his chair, relaxed and indifferent. 'You can't have any idea what it was like. You don't –'

Sherlock's eyes flared, vivid and dangerous, and for the first time since meeting him at Bart's, the fact that Sherlock was Faolchu slammed home, no longer an abstract concept but something meaningful. There was a sense of immeasurable potency being held at bay, and John sank his teeth into his tongue, shutting his eyes in regret at his outburst. The taste of iron filled his mouth, and he swallowed it away as his murmur drifted between them.

'Or maybe you do?'

John was aware he shouldn't pry. Sherlock had never said anything about how he'd come to share John's condition, but the need to find out was so strong that his chest ached, cavernous and straining with the desire to understand.

'The whole idea of quarantine is to monitor a potentially infected individual for signs of the change. That way, they can experience a transformation in a controlled environment where their instinct to protect themselves is kept to a minimum. Thanks to the unexpectedly delayed failure of the vaccine, you did not have that opportunity,' Sherlock pointed out, laying out his logic like a poker player showing his hand.

'Did you?' John pursed his lips again, struggling to read Sherlock's blank expression.

'No, nor did I have access to the vaccine.'

Shock washed through John's veins, and he leaned forward, his palms pressed to the wooden table-top as he narrowed his eyes. 'What? Why not? The vaccine was invented more than fifty years ago. Any hospital in the western world would have it ready and waiting. Were you – were you out of the country? How old were you?'

Sherlock sighed, glancing away as if deliberating whether to confide in John. At first, he looked like he would say nothing and leave his questions unanswered, but eventually, he steeled himself, squaring his shoulders as he began.

'My father occupied a superior position in government to the one that Mycroft currently enjoys; it made his family into targets.' He drummed his fingers on the table, a nervous gesture. 'When I was fifteen, I was abducted by a terrorist organisation, and I use that word in the loosest possible sense. They were little more than a small gang with political motivations and delusions of grandeur, but they were ruthless.'

John realised he was holding his breath, his back rigid as he listened to Sherlock's bland explanation.

'Most, five of them, were human, but two of them were Mac Tiré.'

'They bit you?' John swallowed, his hands fluttering fitfully as he fought the urge to reach out.

'It was their threat to my father. He would meet their demands, or the Mac Tiré would infect me. Without the medication...'

John made a rough noise in his throat. The main idea of the vaccination was to neutralise the infection before it could take hold. However, even when it failed in its primary objective, as it had done in John, it still offered protection from what was otherwise a ravaging disease. Before the inoculation was invented, most people who were bitten died from the effects well before they could transform.

'Christ. Why didn't your dad give them what they wanted?'

Sherlock cocked his head, his answer smooth. 'The British government does not negotiate with terrorists.'

John covered his mouth with his curled fist, furious at the man who had put duty before the safety of his own flesh and blood: his brilliant, genius child. 'What happened?'

Sherlock shrugged, the motion fluid and ambivalent. 'I don't remember much. It hurt. I recall being grateful I had a mattress on which to sleep, rather than the stone floor, and confused as to why they didn't kill me quickly. It was only later that I realised that, should I survive, they planned to contact my father and give him another chance to save me before they put me down with a bullet.' He ran his hand through his hair. 'Not that it would have done them any good. They recorded the attack and sent it to him. Once I was free, I discovered that he had committed suicide.'

The whole story was delivered with little expression, and John wished he could match that distance. However, his imagination wouldn't allow him that luxury. He kept picturing Sherlock, younger and vulnerable, at the mercy of his captors and ravaged by the disease that had forged him into what he was today. 'How did you get out?'

'One of the humans was charged with taking care of me – trying to coax me through. He gave me water and food when I could hold it down.' Sherlock's eyes darted away, and John saw a twitch of sadness, haunted by a small flare of the same triumph he recognised in himself. 'I dealt with him first. They thought I'd be wild and savage: an animal they could fight. They didn't expect an ambush. They didn't predict a Faolchú would have any idea of strategy.'

Sherlock lifted his chin, meeting John's gaze without a flicker of shame. 'I killed them all, including the Mac Tiré. Some had guns; I didn't give them the chance to get off a shot. Some had nothing, and I ripped out their throats.'

'Good.' The word escaped him, decisive, as he nodded his head. 'They kidnapped you, locked you up and infected you. They got what they fucking deserved. You reacted how anyone would in a survival situation.'

'I know I did.' Sherlock set his mug aside, the jubilant light in his gaze purely intellectual. 'It was a prolonged, high-stress scenario where my ongoing existence was always in question. Rather than crippling me as they had hoped, the infection gave me the strength and tools I needed to neutralise those whom I perceived as a menace. You understand and accept that about me without a problem.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Why don't you allow yourself the same leniency?'

John blinked. 'That was different.'

'Not by much. You were in a war-zone, constantly in peril and with your life in the balance. As a human, you defended yourself and met your objectives with a gun in hand. As a Faolchú, you fell back on your new physical form. Eminently sensible.'

'I could have killed innocents!' John slammed his palm down, shaking his head fitfully. 'Don't you get it? That's the difference. As far as I know, those people were no danger to me!'

Silence followed John's outburst, heavy with consideration. After a moment, Sherlock got to his feet and took John's mug, deliberately turning his back. The normal, absent-minded gesture of a human reeked of defiance to John's senses, and he curled his fingers around the seat of the chair, holding himself in place as he battled the desire to – what? Run away? Fight? Bend Sherlock over the table and show him how dangerous he could be?

'If I could discover what happened, would it help?' Sherlock asked at last. 'To be certain, one way or the other?'

John released the breath that knotted, hot and hard, under his ribs, running his tongue over his teeth as he pushed back the wobbling swing of his emotions and tried to concentrate on Sherlock's voice. 'I – yes. How would you –?' He closed his eyes, the answer obvious. 'Mycroft.'

'He probably already has the file in his possession. Considering his usual overbearing protectiveness, whatever it contains is clearly inadequate for him to have you removed.'

'Mycroft's human.' The statement seemed apropos of nothing, and John winced as he tried to clarify. 'He might not have the strength to “remove” me.'

The look Sherlock gave him was one of fond disbelief, as if he envied John that little delusion. His fingers were already dancing over the keys of his mobile, no doubt sending a text requesting the information.

'It could be a while,' he admitted, 'but Mycroft will probably turn up before the end of the day.'

John glanced at the clock, its hands inching towards lunch-time. After months of wondering how bad it had been and endless hours spent trying to get a straight answer, he would finally uncover the secrets of his first change.

Either he would have the consolation that those he had killed had been a genuine danger and his actions were in self-defence, or the confirmation that he had murdered in cold blood.

All he had to do was wait.

**********

Quiet voices woke John from a nap in his armchair, and he stifled an inward groan. His neck ached from resting at an awkward angle and his body grouched about the uncomfortable position. However, rather than shift and stretch, he held himself still, listening to the hushed conversation between Sherlock and their visitor.

It was Mycroft, his human fragrance mixing with the expensive cloth of his suit and a hint of ink, standing by the door to the flat. He spoke with the same clean-cut voice as Sherlock, his lack of volume doing nothing to impede his enunciation. 'This is classified information. While you have the clearance to read it, John does not.'

'He won't believe it coming from me. He needs to see the report with his own eyes. His continuing refusal to transform is taking its toll; this could be all he requires to change his stance.'

'Why, Sherlock,' Mycroft purred, unctuous and smug. 'You've finally learned not to break your toys. Mummy would be pleased.'

A snarl ripped through the flat, making John stiffen and his heart pound. He had never heard Sherlock make a noise like that before, all ferocity and fury. Had he actually transformed, or had he produced that terrifying sound from a human throat?

Risking a glance over at the two brothers, he stared, unabashed. Sherlock was almost nose-to-nose with Mycroft, his teeth bared and his shoulders straight. That deceptively slender body appeared broad and intimidating, his suit straining over the hidden strength which had suddenly come to the fore.

Mycroft, in contrast, visibly cringed. His hands were drawn in close to his chest, his palms facing outwards in a typical human gesture of appeasement. He didn't meet Sherlock's gaze, and the file he had brought with him was held awkwardly in place by the curl of a couple of fingers, which rather ruined the implication of surrender.

The overall impression was strange on a human, but if John thought of it in terms of a wolf or dog, he would recognise the submission a mile away. Mycroft was slightly taller than his brother and normally used that to his advantage. Now, Sherlock loomed, and John wasn't convinced that Mycroft's response was contrived. He wouldn't put it past him to learn wolf behaviour in an effort to manipulate his Faolchu brother, but this seemed genuine.

'Apologies,' Mycroft whispered, his gaze darting to John and including him in the expression of remorse. He looked like a man who had remembered that 221B was a literal wolves' den, regardless of the current shape of its occupants. 'Clearly I made a miscalculation.'

Sherlock snatched the file and ripped the door open. He did not voice a command, nor jerk his head to indicate that his brother should depart. He didn't have to. Mycroft took the hint, striding away with another apologetic murmur, his face pale and his brow glistening with the first flush of sweat. Sherlock didn't even bother watching him leave, confident he would flee their territory.

'He's afraid of you.' John blinked, watching Sherlock's body language shift until he was just his flatmate again, elegant and benign.

'He forgets what I am. The occasional timely reminder does him good. He won't bother us for a week or two.' Sherlock examined the beige dossier in his grasp, head cocked with intrigue before he stretched out his arm, offering it to John.

'Have you read it?' John got to his feet, limping slightly as he approached and eased it from Sherlock's fingers. 'Do you –' He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his voice shook. 'Do you know?'

'No. Do you want me to?'

John shook his head, ignoring the tangle in his gut as he stared at the sheaf of papers.

'Stay?' The plaintive request tore itself from his mouth. If Sherlock were anyone else, John would take the file away, curl up in his room and reveal its secrets in seclusion. Yet somehow, he found himself unwilling to face the document's contents without Sherlock at his side.

Mutely, Sherlock gestured to the kitchen table, watching John drop into one of the chairs before he turned to fill the kettle. It was tempting to put off the inevitable by making some teasing remark of surprise. Sherlock never made the tea. John wasn't sure he was even aware of the process, but there he was, nimbly going through the routine, his back to John in a thin veil of privacy.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and reached out, flipping open the cover and taking in the blocky, impersonal text. It outlined the series of events from the time John was bitten to when a bullet found its home in his shoulder.

Two-thirds of the way down, a relevant paragraph caught his attention, making him frown.

'It says I “engaged the enemy”.' John looked up as Sherlock put a mug down in front of him. 'I killed nine people.' He scowled at the typeface, hating it for its vague obscuration: a defining moment of his existence wrought down to nothing but a few stock phrases. 'The rest of it's all about the friendly fire and my discharge.'

He went to turn the page, only to stop when Sherlock touched his knuckles in warning. 'There are pictures of the altercation.'

John hesitated, meeting his gaze and giving a shrug. 'Can't be much worse than crime scene photos.'

'I think the fact you were responsible might colour your perceptions.' Sherlock sat down, leaning back and staring at the opposite wall, his shoulder pressing against John's. Perhaps it was an accident, or possibly the gesture was a subtle show of solidarity, but either way John relished his warmth, taking strength from it as he made his way through the information available.

His brain stuttered at the first image, logical thought falling away beneath the whimpering weight of repulsion. Sherlock was right; it made a difference that it was him who had done this to a person. All at once, it seemed less important about whether they were insurgents or not. In the end, he'd still killed them, up close and so much more personal than a bullet.

'Shit,' he breathed, shuffling back in his chair to try and get away from the photograph, unable to look at it.

Gently, Sherlock dragged the file closer, taking it in with an unflinching eye. He probably saw more than the daubed palette of stone and sand, skin and blood, but John could not bring himself to join the search. Instead he stared into his tea, his stomach churning as Sherlock spoke.

'Clothing is civilian, but the calluses on his hands suggest prolonged exposure to the use of a semi-automatic weapon. The gun is a throwback from the cold-war, old and unreliable.' He tapped his finger over a metallic gleam in the corner of the image. 'Spent cartridge casings indicate shots were fired. Everyone you killed bears signs of being an active participant in warfare, both obvious and subtle, the latter of which would be absent if this were somehow staged.'

John swallowed, pursing his lips as he shook his head. 'I don't think the military would bother with that for me, do you?' he gestured to the photos. 'I mean, look at what I did to them.'

'Perhaps you're the one that needs to inspect these more closely.' Sherlock frowned when John closed his eyes, his voice taking on a harsh edge. 'A single bite and tear to the neck, breaking the spine and severing the major blood vessels. Their deaths would have been almost instantaneous, and none of these pictures show evidence of savagery. This was not a wolf killing prey. This was the quick, clean neutralisation of a number of threats that were actively attacking you.'

'Does it matter?' John asked. 'All I can remember is how good it felt. It was me inside that animal's head, and I didn't think twice about – about any of this.' He waved his hand vaguely at the file, sickened.

'The instinct to survive is a powerful one. Make no mistake, John, they would have shot you if they could.' Sherlock crossed his arms. 'If it came to a gun battle, you would have killed them with a bullet to protect yourself and the men in your care. The only thing different about this scenario is the weapon put to use.'

'It wasn't a weapon! It was me!' John shouted, seeing the logic in his friend's explanation even as he railed against it.

Sherlock shook his head, his words sharp. 'This is not about the deaths you caused. This is about your inability to comprehend that whether someone is Mac Tiré or Faolchú they are, first-and-foremost, human, regardless of what shape they occupy.' He sighed, his voice dropping to a murmur. 'If you could remember the events of that night, I doubt you would find such self-flagellation necessary.'

He got to his feet, turning away and shrugging on his coat, his patience clearly at an end as he tugged his collar upright. 'I need to get to the labs. I've got some experiments that need my attention.'

'Sherlock –?'

He half-turned, his gaze not disinterested as John suspected it would be, but edged with annoyance and a nearly undetectable shadow of concern.

'How come you recall what happened to you but I don't?'

Sherlock frowned down at his shoes, his brow pleated as he gave the question some thought. 'Initial transformations are challenging mentally as well as physically. The brain has to parse entirely different inputs. In your case, the inoculation proteins would have interfered.' He lifted his head, suddenly intent, as if what he had to say was vitally important. 'It wouldn't be the same next time, should you choose to transform. There's nothing left of the vaccine in your scent or your body. It's gone.'

'So I'd be completely aware?' John wasn't sure that was as comforting as Sherlock made it out to be. 'And I'd remember whatever I did?'

'Your higher mental processes would be intact. You would not think or rationalise any differently than you are doing at this very moment.' Sherlock grimaced. 'Illogical sentiments and all.'

He watched Sherlock go, stepping across the threshold and closing the door, leaving John alone in a flat that seemed void in his absence. For several minutes, he sat at the table, numb and jittery. It was not sensible, what he was feeling, but that didn't make it any easier to set aside his fears.

Eventually, he reached out, pulling the dossier towards him again. He was no closer to having an answer – to deciding whether to accept the transformation or continue to ignore it – but at least he could man up and face the facts. There was plenty of information amidst the papers, and John resigned himself to reading them in full.

If nothing else, he owed himself that much.

**********

John's eyelashes fluttered, a groan catching in his throat as his awakening body registered the aches that plagued him. They were not the sullen bite of malaise, but something sharper.

'Ow.'

Carefully, he propped himself up on his elbow, noting that it was no longer just his hips and shoulders that carried his discomfort. It nested around his spine as well, taking root in his knees and locking his ankles with tension. Sherlock had told him that failing to change would have a negative impact on his health, but John had dismissed the claim. Now, though, the strain was undeniable, and he set his jaw in a tense line as his shoulders rounded, stubborn and petulant.

His transformation was not obligatory; it wasn't tied into the moon or any kind of cycle. It was meant to be done by choice, and yet the urge was an itch under his skin: impossible to scratch. If he wasn't careful, he'd change instinctively. Something would happen, and his body would react and dump him right back into the same situation he had experienced in Afghanistan.

Closing his eyes, John sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair as his toes curled against the carpet. He couldn't allow that. Perhaps the people he had dealt with had been dangerous, threatening his well-being and those men to whom he was loyal, but John still had no wish to revert to that instinctual state.

Sherlock said it would be different the next time, easier, especially now the last of the vaccine had faded from his system, but that didn't reduce the importance of his decision. Accepting what he was seemed like a bigger step than the transformation itself. If he ignored it, fought it, turned his back on it, he could pretend it was a disease: a regrettable condition that interfered with his quality of life. If he actively sought it out, it meant embracing what he could become.

John wasn't sure he could do that.

With a sigh, he resolved to call the surgery and inform them he was too ill to work. Guilt wormed through his gut, but it was the only option. Until he figured out what to do, it was probably best if he stayed in the flat.

'Isolating yourself from the world won't help you.'

He jerked in surprise, wincing as his neck protested before glaring at the man who stood in the frame of his open doorway. Generally speaking, Sherlock respected the unwritten edict that John's room was off limits. This, though, was pushing it. One small sway and Sherlock would invade the boxed-in confines of John's space. The idea made his spine tense, and he wished it was all distrust. That would be easier to deal with and write off as something latently territorial.

Instead, a thrill buzzed through him – glutinously satisfied at the idea of Sherlock in this room, cocooned along with the rest of John's treasures.

'Can I come in?'

John considered it. Really, it was probably safer to meet him in the hallway, a neutral area, but his body ached at the thought of moving, and he eventually gave a weary nod. 'If you must.'

Sherlock stepped forward, every movement choreographed as if to prevent frightening a timid animal. He did not bother taking in his surroundings. His attention was exclusively on John, and he pulled a packet of paracetamol free from his pocket before reaching out to press his fingers to John's forehead.

Shock jolted John's body, sharp and jarring. People didn't touch him, not anymore. The occasional handshake, maybe, and Sherlock had a tendency to pluck at his sleeves or drag him along by the wrist, but that was all peripheral, limited to the edges of his form. Now Sherlock filled John's view with his shoulders and chest as he assessed the heat that dwelt in John's skin. The pale stretch of his neck was bared near John's jaw. If he leaned forward, he'd be slumped against Sherlock's body, warm and safe.

Christ, it was tempting.

'You've started running a low-grade fever. It's getting worse.'

Perhaps that explained the fog blanketing his thoughts. 'It could be something I picked up at work,' he pointed out, sighing when Sherlock gave him a look that told him he was transparent in his deception.

'Take these.' Sherlock popped two pills from the blister pack, holding out the glass of water John kept on his bedside table. 'They'll help with the aches and let you get some more rest. Physical degradation from a lack of transformation tends to come in waves. You'll get better in a day or two, for a while at least.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.' John did as he was told, making a confused noise when Sherlock prodded him to his feet and straightened out the sheets, fluffing John's pillows absently. 'I keep telling you that those papers about it are dodgy.'

'What about personal experience?'

John, who had wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to still the awakening shivers in his frame, froze, staring at Sherlock in surprise. He had never asked about the aftermath of Sherlock receiving the bite. He'd assumed that he had treated it as a fascinating experiment, accepting the new facet of his existence with ease. It seemed that was not the case.

'How long did you last?'

'Seven months, three weeks and a day.' He shrugged as he ushered John back into the nest of his bed, not giving him a chance to protest. 'Get in. I can't hear myself think over the sound of your teeth chattering.'

'Your bedside manner could use some work,' John murmured, though he was secretly surprised Sherlock was bothering at all. If asked, he would have assumed Sherlock would come searching for him eventually when he didn't see him for a day or two. This pro-active, if somewhat authoritarian care was not something he'd foreseen. 'Why didn't you want to change?'

'My mother was in denial about my abduction and infection. I followed her lead.' A frown creased his brow. 'Everything became slow and grey, useless. When I realised that my continuing refusal was destroying the abilities of which I was so proud, I took the only option available to me.'

'You transformed.'

'I accepted what I was, rather than hiding from it.' Sherlock lifted his chin, as if daring John to comment on the sentiment of his statement. When John did not speak, he placed his right hand on top of the quilt, intimately close to John's left. One small twitch, and they'd be touching. 'Get some rest, and text me if you need anything.'

'Will you be in the flat?'

Sherlock stood, his eyes distant as if internally examining his schedule before he nodded. 'I can solve Lestrade's case by phone if necessary. Besides, it would be unwise to leave you unsupervised. Mrs Hudson won't bat an eyelid if you transform unexpectedly, but I'd rather she didn't take furniture repairs out of the rent.'

John huffed a weak laugh through his nose, noticing through half-lidded eyes that Sherlock left his bedroom door ajar. It meant that the safe sounds of Baker Street mingled with London's metropolitan melody, and he huddled under his quilt, steadily allowing the darkness to take him.

It was a strange existence, shattered by the shards of nightmares. Time gnarled and wavered, slipping away like sand before stagnating into endless minutes. Sherlock kept making him drink water, but the cramps in John's stomach made it a tortuous exercise. He woke more than once, panting and wretched, burning up and freezing cold in equal turns until it all became a blur and he slipped further into sleep's healing depths.

When John finally came back to himself, it was to find his bedside lamp casting its glow on the room and the sunlight beyond the window extinguished. He had no idea what day it was, but Sherlock was wearing different clothes, which suggested at least twenty-four hours had been and gone.

Sherlock sat on the floor beside his bed, his legs stretched out in front of him as he scanned the text of the book open in his lap. He looked almost as knackered as John felt, tossed about on an ocean of sickness to be left, limp and vile, on the shore.

The first wave, Sherlock had said. It was possible he was lying about experiencing a decline in health, attempting to guide John's actions to suit his own ends, but John couldn't bring himself to believe that. Not anymore. If that were the case, Sherlock would have left him here to enhance his suffering and drive his point home. Yet John had clear memories of careful hands and soothing words teasing him free from the apical edges of his dreams.

If this was what awaited him in future, days of pain and fever and the steady degeneration of his body and mind, then it was obvious that there was only one viable choice.

Reaching out, he rested his hand on those dark curls, the hair scraping his palm as Sherlock looked up, surprise bright in his eyes. 'Can you –' John licked his lips, clearing his parched throat and removing the crack from his words. 'Can you show me how to change? I don't think I can do it on my own.'

To his credit, Sherlock didn't question him. He merely nodded, his agreement evident in every line of his body, as was his relief.

For better or worse, it was time John learnt what it really meant to be Faolchu.


	3. Chapter 3

John clenched his jaw, his stomach fizzing with anticipation. He was sitting at the kitchen table, agreeably eating breakfast under Sherlock's watchful gaze. He had made him wait, insisting it would be easier for everyone involved if John was both well-rested and well-fed before attempting to change.

So he had spent the remainder of the night endeavouring to sleep, tossing and turning with impatience. Now he had made the choice, waiting was an abysmal kind of agony. He wanted to get it over with, but it would be stupid not to defer to Sherlock's advice. After all, John had asked for it, and the last thing he wanted was to transform alone. He needed someone else here, someone he could trust to stop him if anything went wrong.

Besides, he wasn't even sure how to go about changing into a wolf. Did you just have to concentrate on the idea? Was there some kind of mental button he needed to push?

'Does it hurt?'

Sherlock took a sip of tea, shaking his head in response to the one question John voiced before he swallowed. He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, watching him consume a bowl of cereal. 'It's a bit like sneezing and sunburn. A rush and a bit of a sting.'

John frowned at the description, trying to imagine those two distinct sensations blurring together and failing miserably. 'That doesn't help me much.'

'You'll understand when you do it,' Sherlock promised, draining his mug and cocking his head in John's direction: an obvious encouragement for him to continue with his enquiries.

'What's it like?' He had visions of horror movies: bodies writhing, sprouting fur and claws. 'Does it take long? What if something comes at you while you're in the middle of it?' He bit off the torrent before it could grow any further, feeling like a child demanding too much. However, Sherlock took it all in his stride, as if he approved of John's quest for knowledge.

'It's hard to explain.' He pursed his lips as he struggled to find the right words. 'It's like pouring yourself from one container into another.' A snort of irritation escaped him. 'Language is not adept at outlining the experience, but it's not a particularly upsetting sight. More than anything, it's the noise that disturbs people.'

'Squelchy?' John asked, unable to hide his grimace.

'It's more of a grinding sound. Bones shift in their sockets and change length, dragged around by the muscles as they move and re-anchor. Although at the moment we're human shape, our physiology is Faolchú.' He waved a hand down at his current body in emphasis. 'If you took an x-ray, you'd see the difference. Plated bones which can bend and twist, extending or contracting as required when signalled to do so by chemicals in the blood. There are dozens of variations in our anatomical structure from a standard human. Without them, the conversion would require a complete rebuild from the cellular level, like a caterpillar in a cocoon.'

'To be honest, that sounds better than my skeleton rearranging itself,' John admitted. 'I don't understand how it doesn't hurt.'

'The nervous system is the first thing to be affected. Most people speculate that pain signalling is switched off for the duration. The whole process may take several minutes during the first few attempts, but it tends to occur more readily with time. Adrenaline also accelerates it: an essential survival instinct.'

Sherlock pushed away from the counter, his voice hardening with urgency. 'Even if you remember nothing else, don't forget that you are helpless during your change. Your body is too overloaded to understand a threat, let alone respond to it. It's the one point where people like are us are truly vulnerable.'

John rose and put his bowl next to the sink before he gripped the edge of the work surface. 'You're not exactly selling it to me, here,' he muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

'Would you prefer it if I lied?' Sherlock demanded, folding his arms. 'Would you rather go into this with no more knowledge than that provided in fairy tales?'

'No. No, it's just –' He shrugged, not even sure how to rationalise it to himself. It was one thing to think objectively of changing shape, but to discuss the actual logistics made it immediate, and John felt far from ready.

'What if I show you?'

He turned, startled at the offer. 'Would you? It might help me know what to expect.'

Sherlock nodded, dropping his fingers to his shirt buttons and slipping them free before shrugging out of the high-quality cotton. When his hands dropped to his belt, John made a hoarse noise and turned his back, trying not to choke as he asked, 'Is being naked necessary?'

'You're a doctor,' Sherlock pointed out, amusement dark in his voice as the rustle of cloth hushed in John's ears. 'Not to mention that you supposedly have ex-lovers strewn across three continents. A prudish attitude to nudity seems at odds with that reputation.'

'Yeah, well, God forbid you be modest or anything,' John croaked, swallowing tightly as he tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was stripping off behind him. He'd let him believe that embarrassment was the reason John averted his eyes. Truthfully, he didn't need the temptation of getting a good look at Sherlock's body. Bad enough he sometimes got off to the thought of Sherlock's voice and hands. His imagination didn't require any fuel to add to that particular fire.

'Why can't you stay dressed while you change?' he managed.

'Clothes can be severely damaged during the process, and replacing them is expensive. Even if they don't tear, they are then tangled around you. Belts and buckles aren't easy to manipulate when you don't have fingers. Did you never wonder what happened to your army uniform?'

'I had more important things to think about,' John replied, frowning in recollection. 'I was wearing my dog tags, though. They survived all right.'

'The chain was probably long enough to allow for your body's altered dimensions without interference. Generally speaking, jewellery is a bad idea. It can get absorbed during a metamorphosis. Normally it won't do much harm, but it's wise not to risk it.'

Now he considered it, John realised Sherlock didn't wear anything like that. No rings, no watch, nothing. Neither did Donovan or Lestrade. He was just trying to recall if he'd _ever_ seen a Mactire wearing accessories when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

There was a steel tray propped up on the kitchen surface by the sink. It was highly polished, as might be found in an operating theatre. Sherlock probably had it for an experiment, but right now it was giving John a perfect, uninterrupted view of the very sight he was trying to avoid.

Sherlock looked ghostly in the patina of the reflective metal: miles of pale skin stretched over his muscles. John had suspected his ribs would show, considering how little he seemed to eat, but while he was lean, he was not malnourished. There was something like a dancer's strength in his frame, and John stared, captivated by the frail echo.

'Are you going to turn around and watch this, or are you getting a good enough view?'

The tips of John's ears burned, and he shot a glare at Sherlock, who stood starkers and completely unashamed in the space between the kitchen and the living room. Keeping his gaze resolutely above Sherlock's waist, John shrugged, endeavouring to hide the glow of mortification that blazed in his face. 'Come on, then.'

'Look in the drawer to your right,' Sherlock urged, crouching down so he was elegantly poised, balanced on his toes with his thighs parallel to the floor. One hand splayed against the ground, stabilising him, but other than the natural tension the posture demanded, there was no other sign of strain.

Obligingly, John obeyed, frowning when the gleam of his gun, which had been in his bedside drawer, met his gaze. 'What –?' He pulled it out, noticing it was loaded. 'Why would I need this?'

'You won't. However, since you have no experience of anyone in wolf form beyond the cretin that bit you, arming you seemed like a wise choice. Should you lose your nerve, try not to shoot me in the head. It's difficult to survive that no matter what shape I'm in.' Sherlock watched him, never breaking eye-contact as John shifted the Sig in his hand, savouring the weight before he firmly set it aside.

'You're right. I won't need it. You might look like a wolf, but you won't _be_ one, will you?'

A hint of a smile curved Sherlock's lips, and John tried not to be too proud of eliciting such a response.

'You can change standing up,' he explained, ignoring John's query, 'but the experience has a tendency to leave you off-balance. Maintaining a low centre of gravity is ideal.'

'What then?'

Sherlock tipped his head and raised an eyebrow. 'You let go.'

Dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones as he shut his eyes, his spine curling in a protective hunch. John watched, captivated, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Sherlock's skin rippled, but it was not a disturbing churn of flesh. Instead, it was a gentle vibration, punctuated by horrible, meaty, grinding sounds: like someone resetting a dislocated shoulder.

Yet there were no screams of torment. No twisting or swearing. Sherlock was calm in the centre of a physiological storm, intent on what was happening to him. It drove home the point he had made about being defenceless, leaving John breathless at the depth of Sherlock's trust. The man had given him a gun, for God's sake, and then bared himself beneath the alterations wrought by the transformation. His faith made John shiver, and he braced his hand on the table as the image in front of him began to blur.

Blinking sharply, he realised it wasn't his eyes. Heat came off of Sherlock in waves, and even in the clear light of day, the final stage was somehow obscure, as if seen through a veil. He got a sense of movement – of an undeniably human visage shifting into something altogether more alien. Pale skin darkened as if eclipsed, leaving Sherlock's shadowy outline to bend and curve in unexpected places. It was like watching a mirage, unstable, but John did not dare tear his gaze away as the minutes passed.

Abruptly, it was over. A creature sat where Sherlock had been crouched, watching him, and trepidation tightened John's throat. Any illusions he harboured about wolves being big dogs were incinerated, leaving him frozen with fear.

John's eyes ached with the urge to seek out his gun, but he blinked it away, refusing to make so overtly threatening a motion. His heart thudded hard enough to choke him, and his skin prickled with sweat. He could detect his own terror in a putrid fog around him, and the distant cry of logic – that this was still _Sherlock_ – had little impact. Perhaps if he hadn't been quite so big, it would have been easier for John to conceal his alarm, but all he could think of was the one back in Afghanistan, tiny and starved in comparison, and the sharp rake of its teeth through his flesh.

Suddenly, the wolf huffed a sigh through its muzzle and did something with its eyes, looking left, then up, then right – an eye-roll, John realised. It was a human expression on a beast's face, carried out within the limitations of its anatomy. Immediately, the power of Sherlock's personality came to the fore, far from savage and unpredictable: a welcome sight.

'You're bigger than I expected,' John whispered, realising he had pressed himself back against the kitchen table in a bid to increase the distance. Now, he relaxed his white-knuckled grip, scrubbing a gloss of sweat from his upper lip before wiping his palms on his thighs. His muscles were stiff, paralysed like a deer caught in the headlights, and he forced them to slacken as he stared.

Sherlock didn't approach him, and John realised the irony of the situation. Here he was, human in body and mind, yet bestial in his response: timid and twitchy. Any predator would have leapt on that as a weakness, but with every minute of intelligent patience, Sherlock was proving his point. Logic and conscious thought were in charge of his body, regardless of his shape, and he was deliberately behaving in a non-threatening manner as he tried not to startle John with any sudden movements.

Tentatively, John shifted his weight, fighting against his instinct to flee as he inched into the intervening space, not daring to take his eyes off Sherlock. A wolf would already have gone for him, he was sure. Even if it hadn't attacked in response to his palpable dismay, the inadvertent dominance of his maintained eye-contact would have probably set one off.

Yet Sherlock appeared to be eradicating any sign that could be misinterpreted as aggression from his canine body. His ears were forward, pricked up and interested. His eyes were relaxed, not flared with fear or predatory focus. His muscles were void of tension, and his spine was slumped to reduce his size without appearing deceptive.

Finally, John was close enough to touch, and a hollow thump echoed in the flat. He smiled when he realised Sherlock had wagged his tail in approval, yet John was still unwilling to reach out. It was hard to believe what he knew, that this wasn't a wild animal, but a human being – one he trusted with his life.

The top of Sherlock's head came up to the bottom of John's sternum, and his svelte body was strong and covered in black fur. He lacked many of the markings John would traditionally associate with wolves, but what, at first glance, looked like a solid ebony coat was dark russet brown where the light hit it, reminiscent of Sherlock's curls. Yet it was his eyes that drove the truth home. They were not amber and feral, but that same astute silver-blue that John knew so well, as beautiful and clever as always.

Letting out a shaking breath, he cautiously reached out, his palm up and his fingers crooked in a request for permission. It was the kind of gesture you made towards a dog you didn't know, and Sherlock did the eye-roll thing again before butting John's hand with his muzzle, leaning forward to press his head up in a blatant invitation.

It didn't matter that Sherlock couldn't talk. John knew him well enough to realise what he was being encouraged to do. Sherlock armed himself with knowledge, and now he urged John to do the same: to document the differences between human and wolf so he could better understand what would happen to him when he was in Sherlock's place.

Carefully, he trailed his fingers across the broad, blunt outline of Sherlock's cranium, around the velvety fur of his pointed ears and along the powerful line of his jaw. A wet nose tickled his wrist before a hot, rough tongue darted playfully over the fragile skin, making John grimace and laugh even as he caught the white gleam of deadly teeth the movement revealed.

Coarse guard hairs prickled at John's fingers, rough like raw silk. They were to keep snow and rain away from the downy undercoat that maintained Sherlock's body heat. John relished the contrast, smoothing his palms through Sherlock's ruff and hunkering down as he moved along the slender length of his forelegs to his paws.

'Thanks.' He grinned when Sherlock grudgingly lifted one foot in the same gesture a dog would use when asked to “shake hands”. It made his examination easier, and the names of muscles and bones slid through his mind as he attempted to understand the complex change that had been wrought.

Mactire and Faolchu anatomy had always fascinated him, and he knew more than most people. He had been aware of the dissimilarities: sliding plates and expanding regions. In the bigger bones, that made sense, but in the hands and feet it was more complicated – the physiology more intricate.

The spine was the same. Adjusting the length of a bone was challenging enough, but wolves had more vertebrae. Those new components had to come from somewhere, and John's knowledge was lacking in that respect. When he had to treat a Mactire, they were always in human form. As such, there were some biological variations that remained a hazy memory of theory from his days of training at Bart's.

Absently, John scratched behind Sherlock's ears, still frowning in thought. He only hesitated when he realised that Sherlock's eyes were narrowed in pleasure, his head tilted unashamedly into the pressure of John's fingertips.

If Sherlock were on two legs rather than four and wearing a suit instead of fur, he would never dare to touch him as he had done these past few minutes, even with only academic curiosity forefront in his mind. Yet this, his calm and control, eased away the last vestige of John's uncertainty, and he drank in the sight.

'You can understand everything I say, can't you?' John asked, smiling when Sherlock conveyed “obviously” with no more than a deadpan glare. 'It's not as easy as I hoped it would be. Seeing you like this, I mean. Everything about you is...' He trailed off, gesturing mutely with one hand to clawed paws and fang-lined jaws. 'Is this what I'll look like? Deadly?'

Sherlock got to his feet, the muscles beneath his coat rippling as he wended through the furniture with surprising grace. He didn't barge anything out of his way, just squeezed through the gaps as if he'd practised it a thousand times. Only once he reached the bedroom door did he shoulder it aside, vanishing into the shadowy depths beyond.

Briefly, John considered following him, but it seemed like a step too far. Besides, he didn't have to wait long. Less than two minutes later, Sherlock emerged, wrapped carelessly in a bed-sheet like a Roman emperor. His dark curls were a fuzzy, debauched mess, and there was also a sated air to his mood – something lax and self-satisfied that sent John's mind plummeting shamelessly into the gutter. Sherlock looked as if he'd experienced a good shagging, rather than an arduous transformation.

'That was quick.' John licked his lips, glad his voice was steady.

'I've been doing it for more than half my life,' Sherlock pointed out. 'I slowed down earlier so you could see what happened.' He padded, as elegant as a human as he had been as a wolf, back through to the kitchen, his voice drifting after him. 'As for being deadly, all wolves are. They're predators. The only issue is that, with a few rare exceptions, Mactírí and Faolchú kill by choice, rather than to fulfil a need for food or as an act of defence.'

'Exceptions like the first time I changed, you mean?' John ducked his head, a chilly flood of doubt rolling through his stomach.

'You were compromised.' Sherlock insisted, dragging in a deep breath and swallowing as if he were choking back his arguments. 'John, I can answer every question you have and demonstrate the process until we're both sick of it, but I cannot show you how it feels. I can't prove to you that it's something you're meant to experience. You have to decide that's what you want and then take action to achieve it.' He shrugged, and John saw a glimmer of Sherlock's helplessness and frustration – no longer distant, but warm and emotional, burdened with genuine concern. 'I can't do it for you.'

John straightened up, heading for the kettle and taking comfort in the routine. He wasn't really thirsty, but he needed the reassurance of something mundane as his heart, mind and wrenching gut warred with one another.

Intellectually, he was curious. Sherlock had given life to that spark. He wanted to know what it felt like, how the world would look and what kind of wolf he'd turn into. He longed to experience being in a creature's body while maintaining his mind.

Yet he was still unsure. Last time it had happened, he had been left reeling, conflicted and torn apart. He had dragged himself home and settled into the monotony of his life, boring but stable. He wasn't sure he wanted to risk throwing everything into disarray once more.

His instincts were another matter. He was both frightened of the consequences and itching with the need to change. Seeing Sherlock do it, he found himself aching in response, like a starving man watching another eat.

With a sigh, he straightened his shoulders and turned to Sherlock, spreading his hands.

'What do I need to do?'

**********

God, this was humiliating. Bad enough that he had to get his kit off, but having watched Sherlock transform as easily as breathing, it was ridiculous that he was struggling. John found himself crouched awkwardly, shivering as he searched for whatever mental switch was necessary to make his body change.

'This isn't working,' he snapped, opening his eyes to glare at Sherlock. At some point, he had dressed himself again, leaving the sheet in a milky spill across the floor. John was inclined to drag it over his body, to hide scars and protect his dignity alike, but somehow that seemed like a failure.

Sherlock looked up from where he was coaxing a fire to life in the hearth. Early spring was far from temperate, and London's permanently damp air raised goose-flesh across John's skin as heavy clouds hid the daylight beyond the window. How long had he been trying to do this? Hours, surely. Ages hunkered here, nude and increasingly bad-tempered while Sherlock offered little assistance.

'You're meant to be by the gun,' John reminded him. 'Not over there faffing with the grate.'

'I won't need it,' Sherlock replied firmly, his arrogance setting John's teeth on edge. 'I promised I'd keep it trained on you in the hopes that putting your fears to rest about my defencelessness would aid your change. It hasn't worked, and you must have realised I had absolutely no intention of pulling the trigger.'

'So you'd have let me rip your throat out, would you?'

Sherlock gave John's body a quick, speculative glance. 'You'd have to actually transform first.'

'Then tell me what the fuck I'm meant to do!' John growled, shutting his eyes and huffing out a frustrated sigh. He wasn't being fair to Sherlock, he knew that. The normally impatient detective had shown surprising calm in trying to coax John into his change, but so far none of it had worked. It was as if there was a button somewhere, but John was groping in the dark for it, unable to trigger whatever it was that would bring about a metamorphosis.

He shut his eyes, hearing Sherlock move and sensing his approach. The nubile heat of his body was a ghost over John's shoulders, and the rustle of cloth whispered promises in his ears, making his breath hitch and his eyes flicker behind closed lids.

A finger pressed against his brow, one single point of contact in the centre of his forehead. 'Lean forward,' Sherlock suggested. 'Apparently this is how Mac Tiré children are taught to do it.'

'Great,' John complained, trying not to be stung at requiring such a basic method. 'Thanks for reminding me that there are kids that can do this better than me.'

Sherlock didn't deign that with an answer, and when John cracked open one eye he saw he was sitting cross-legged in front of him. 'If something goes wrong, don't you think you're a bit close?'

'Stop talking. Shut your eyes. Lean forward.' Each short command was softly spoken yet firm: demanding obedience. With a grimace, John did as he was told, shifting his centre of balance. If Sherlock took his finger away, he wouldn't fall, but it would be a close thing. 'Now, imagine a weight over your skin, like someone's just draped a fur blanket over your shoulders and down your back.'

John wanted to protest that his imagination wasn't that great, but before he could part his lips, a buzzing rush stirred in his mind. It slithered through his fingertips like sand, an impression of energy and purpose, and mentally, he lunged after it, desperate to catch it in his grasp.

A startling, metallic bang made every muscle twitch. His body lurched, and just like that, a wall of power engulfed him. It took root in his bones and surfed over his skin. The world around him vanished, lost in the storm that overtook his body. He was tense and on edge. The memory of the noise, eerily like a gunshot, sat like ice in his mind, but he could do nothing to investigate the threat.

Swathes of darkness consumed him, twining around and through his consciousness, binding him in their restraints. Panic's first flash thrummed like moth's wings, only to be stifled by the sudden wash of sensation. It wasn't pleasure, but a sort of sick satisfaction, like scratching at a mosquito bite until the skin broke and bled. Pain was not the right word for it, though peripherally, he was aware of the burn across his flesh and a surge in his belly. It was a bit like going on a roller-coaster: a swooping, spilling thrill with distinct forward momentum.

However bad the noise had been as a spectator, it was worse when he was at ground zero. Every grind and crunch echoed in his ears, and though it didn't hurt, there were still impressions of pushing and pulling, pressure and movement. He couldn't see, nor hear anything beyond his immediate sphere. His nose wasn't working and his tongue was too big in his mouth.

Just when he believed it would never end, that he'd get stuck halfway and never be one thing or the other, the bubble of isolation burst.

He staggered, his head spinning in a giddy waltz. Uncertainty became fear as he realised his thoughts were clouded, full to the brim with strange new emotions that he couldn't parse. There was no sense of connection or awareness. There was only his current confusion and discomfort, twisting together in a gruesome knot of irrationality.

A hand splayed against his chest, and a shoulder and arm pressed into his side as a steady stream of noise filled his ears. At first it was meaningless, just a babble of sound, but soon John began to recognise it for what it was: human speech.

Sherlock.

He was talking quickly, not a crooning song of reassurance, but a deluge of facts, and John latched onto it as he scrambled to comprehend the world from this new perspective.

'– like suffering a blow to the head. It's not merely an external rearrangement. It takes a while for your mind to catch up with you. You're learning to read the input from alien anatomy and translate that into stimuli you understand. With time, it becomes second nature.' He curled his fingers where they were woven through the dense fur at John's collarbones, and it made him realise how close Sherlock was, sealed to him and supporting his shuddering weight. Even half slumped, it meant John's muzzle was higher than Sherlock's head, and that the man was dangerously powerless.

Except, John realised, there was no threat here. Even as Sherlock continued to speak, touching different parts of John's chest and forelegs, naming them as if trying to wire John's brain into his alternative body, he was finding some clarity. Sherlock teased it out of him, pushing aside the murk of perplexity with every sweep of his fingertips and the unquestionable confidence of his voice. The result was that, within a couple of minutes, John was completely present, his normal consciousness grounded firmly in this novel cage of flesh.

Relief sang through his veins, and his shivers abated. He shifted, lessening Sherlock's burden as he flexed his paws against the floor. His senses flooded back to him, a bombardment that left him blinking. As a Faolchu in human form, his nose had been sensitive, but now the scents overwhelmed him, filling his sinuses with every tiny breath.

The flat smelt of chemicals and food, paper, dust, home and Sherlock. A ghost of hot ash lingered by the fire-hearth, and the electric sockets spewed the faintest edge of ozone. His vision was another matter. It wasn't worse, exactly, but the colours looked off, less saturated than usual.

'Normal wolves don't have cells to detect red light in their retinas,' Sherlock explained when John blinked rapidly. His voice was still loud enough to John's ears, but he suspected he'd dropped the volume significantly in respect of his enhanced hearing. 'While Faolchú and Mactírí retain the full spectrum, the structure at the back of the eye is designed to give priority to definition, rather than colour. As such, your wolf vision is less capable of discerning variations in hue.'

Carefully Sherlock leaned back, his expression wary, and John realised that, so far, he had done nothing to project his humanity. He was simply standing there, a receptor for everything reality threw at him. He wanted to say something, to tell Sherlock that he was right – not that the bastard's ego needed the confirmation: this time, John was all here, not lost in a fugue.

Instead, he settled for trying to look friendly, adjusting his stance and pricking his ears forward. Without meaning to, his jaws parted and his tongue lolled out, panting happily only to disappear as he shut his mouth with a whine of horrified embarrassment.

Sherlock chuckled, a wonderful sound of mirth far richer to John's hearing than it ever was when he was a human. 'Some wolf instincts will over-ride your control. The tongue thing is one of them. I recommend you don't attempt to suppress it. Come on.' He got to his feet, brushing off his trousers before gesturing to his room. 'Don't you want to see what you look like?'

John stood up, stumbling as he adjusted to the unusual centre of gravity and the reality of having four feet rather than two. He wasn't much smaller than Sherlock had been; perhaps he wasn't quite so tall in the shoulder, but he could tell that he was more thick-set: powerful and imposing.

Clumsy, as well, he realised with irritation. It was like trying to drive a big car. He was unsure of his outer limits, and the tail was a damn pain in the arse, wagging and banging into everything. The fur coat over his body was dense, and the flat, which had been cool, was almost tropical beneath its mass.

Sherlock held open his bedroom door, clearly amused as John hesitated on the threshold before creeping inside, unable to stop himself from putting his muzzle to the ground and drawing in the odours of this unfamiliar territory. He'd always wondered if Sherlock ever slept in here, but now his nose gave him the answer. This was Sherlock's domain, steeped in his aroma. Normally, it was mostly a blend of shampoo, tea, the clean air of the lab and a hint of human musk.

Now, in a wolf's body with his already heightened olfactory system turned up to maximum capacity, the smell was... Indescribable. It was impossible to distil all the facets that made up its existence, but the overall effect was decadent and thick, filling his head and taking on a flavour in the back of his throat. It made his blood hum as he chased trails of it over the floor: thin strands of spider silk in some places, broad brush-strokes in others, where Sherlock regularly stood or paced.

The bed was a bloom of fragrance, even without the sheet, and John fought the desire to jump on the mattress and bury his head under the pillows. It was imperative that he record every subtlety of his flatmate's scent, and John inhaled again, light-headed as he gave Sherlock a whiny bark: a question he couldn't articulate.

Sherlock was standing by his wardrobe, the door open to reveal a full-length mirror on the inner-face. He was surveying John's actions with hungry interest, but he shook his head at the sound John made. 'You'll have to save questions for when you're back in human shape. I can't even guess what you want to know right now. If you notice anything unusual, though, I wouldn't worry about it. There might be a couple of forgotten experiments under the bed.'

John gave him a look and was pleased to see that rare smile twitch one corner of Sherlock's mouth. Clearly plenty of his personality was getting through if he could read the “please tell me you're joking” tone to that particular glare.

With a huff, he padded over to the mirror, settling on his haunches and cocking his head as he took in the image. He was – at first glance – as terrifying as Sherlock had been. Sitting like this, the top of his head came to just above Sherlock's navel, but it was the breadth of his shoulders and body that was more noticeable. Not disproportionate, but there was an underlying threat of brutality through sheer size that couldn't be ignored.

His irises were the same blue they had always been, their slate tinge probably a result of John's compromised vision. His pelt appeared to be mottled with grey and gold, the guard hairs silver in comparison to a sandy undercoat. To all intents and purposes, he looked like a wolf, convincing right up until you focussed on his expression: too aware to be an animal.

He tipped his head the other way, narrowing his eyes critically before loping off. There were much more intriguing things than the way he looked, and he continued his exploration, snorting in disbelief at the sheer number of shoes in the bottom of Sherlock's wardrobe before turning his attention to the rest of the flat.

It was strange seeing it from this altered perspective: a domain built for creatures of greater height. Doorknobs weren't meant for paws, but the ones throughout Baker Street were levers that depressed smoothly beneath the lumbering weight of John's efforts. The bathroom carried the strong odour of bleach, acidic and sharp, while the kitchen whirled in a kaleidoscopic fog of blood and vegetable matter.

There was a saucepan lid on the floor, which seemed unusual. It was quite close to where he had changed, and he nudged it with his nose before looking askance in Sherlock's direction.

'I banged it down when you were trying to transform.' He shrugged. 'A loud noise to give you a bit of a push.'

In John's view, that was a monumentally stupid action. Considering the nature of his first change and the unpredictability of his PTSD, the result could have been Sherlock with his throat ripped out, dead on their kitchen floor. In truth, he had forgotten all about the din when assailed with the reality of what it was like to be a wolf, but if he hadn't been rational...

He growled his reprimand, realising that a lack of communication was the largest disadvantage of this whole affair. How was he meant to tell Sherlock that, for a genius, he was sometimes a bloody idiot? So far, there was nothing in his mind that suggested he could dump the thought in Sherlock's head, and he had to settle for grabbing the saucepan lid in his jaws and dropping it back into the open drawer, as raucous and disapproving as he could manage.

Sherlock merely cocked an eyebrow and settled in one of the chairs with a book in his lap, content to remain a benevolent observer as John carried on learning his home through different eyes.

Trotting upstairs to his room, he found it commonplace and comforting, but not remotely interesting. Although, he realised to his embarrassment, his sheets gave away everything about any activities he conducted in their confines. His morning wank, for example, and he was sure he'd cleaned up after himself. He made a mental note to do laundry as soon as he could, and to make sure Sherlock never set foot in here when he was in his canine shape.

Turning away, he eased back down the steps. It was challenging and a touch vertiginous, but he managed it without falling. However, as soon as his concentration shifted, he realised something had changed. The window was open, and the reassuring scents of home were now complimented by the odours of the world beyond.

He bounded over, putting his front paws on the sill and sticking his head out into the cold air. John could smell rain and the river, the muted plethora of fumes from the roads and an odd, sharper chemical that he eventually realised came from the directions of Heathrow and Gatwick respectively: jet engine exhaust. They were faint, almost lost in the chaos of civilisation's perfume, but he was proud of himself for identifying them.

For the first time, he could fully appreciate what Sherlock meant when he kept repeating that he and John were Faolchu. It wasn't about being an animal or not; it was about having the strength and abilities of a wolf and the human intelligence to know what to do with it.

Sherlock's approach enriched the air, and John glanced over his shoulder, wagging his tail in welcome as Sherlock leaned out next to him. 'Once you're sure of your control, we can explore the city,' he promised. 'It's better doing it at night. Normal people still get uncomfortable in the presence of Mactírí and Faolchú in their wolf forms.' Sherlock did not normally bother catering to other people's insecurities, and John cast an inquisitive look in his direction, watching him shrug. 'Less trouble for everyone, at least while you're still getting used to things. Enthusiasm can often be mistaken for aggression.'

John watched him close his eyes, drawing in a lungful of London's resplendent atmosphere as if in worship. Normally, Sherlock occupied two moods: a whirlwind of intellectual energy, all excitement and deduction, or the abyssal trenches of depressive boredom, sprawled and irritable. This was something John didn't often get to see: a centred kind of calm. He looked like a man finally letting go of a great concern, and John realised in a flash of insight that he had been the cause. Sherlock had been genuinely worried about him.

His pulse raced in surprise, and John found himself desperate to understand. Like this, him a wolf and Sherlock a man, there was an ungainly communication barrier. It was not just about speech, but body language and scent. John felt, foolishly perhaps, that if only Sherlock were still a wolf, he would be able to get a better grasp on his flatmate's nebulous motivation, which until now he had suspected was more curiosity and entertainment than anything else.

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John's gaze for a heart-stopping moment before his lips quirked in a smile. He pushed himself upright, his fingers smoothing idly over the top of John's head and down his spine. 'Come on,' he urged. 'You've got questions, and you're in the wrong body to ask them.'

Uncertainty flared in the pit of John's stomach. There hadn't been time to worry about whether he'd be able to make it back or not, but now panic shuddered through him. What if he was stuck like this forever? Intelligent but trapped in a body that couldn't make the most of it? The idea filled him with vibrant anxiety, and he shifted his paws down from the window sill, his tail between his legs and his ears flat as whimpers caught in his throat.

Sherlock frowned at him before gripping John's muzzle none-too-gently and guiding his head up so he could see the certainty in Sherlock's gaze. It was bossy and dominant, bordering on rude. A person might have knocked his hand away or shouted. A wolf would have growled and gone on the attack. John just let it happen, not even offended as Sherlock spoke to him as if he were an idiot.

'“Human” is your default setting. It's how you were born and have lived most of your life. As a result, changing back is easier. You know, intimately and precisely, what it's like. There's no imagination involved. Just concentrate.'

John gave Sherlock a slow, doubt-ridden glare before whuffing a breath and bracing himself, stabilising his body as he grudgingly did as he was asked. Surely there was no way it could be as simple as Sherlock made it sound? He had spent ages trying to get into wolf-shape. He failed to see how reverting could be so –

It was like being hit by a warm tide. He barely had to think about it and there it was, washing through him. His bones eased into the right places, fusing and splitting as the layout of his muscles and organs reverted to their original configuration.

Wave after roaring wave flooded along his nerves: pleasure, not pain. It was tempestuous, and the similarities to something sexual were undeniable. His veins were swollen beneath his florid skin, and his heart raced with a hot, heavy beat. He burned, but it was a torrid, wanton furore, and a groan trembled in his throat.

He was on his knees, slumped against Sherlock, his face buried in the curve of flesh where his shoulder met his neck. Strong arms wrapped around John's torso, holding him together as much as keeping him up, and he could hear Sherlock's pulse alongside his own, fast and fluttering.

John had thought that, when Sherlock had emerged from his room after changing back, he looked sated. Now he knew why. This was about as close to release as he'd ever got without actually _coming_. He was rock hard between his legs, but there was no ache of neglect. Just a heaviness steadily permeating each muscle. A blood panel right now would no doubt show various hormones shooting through his capillaries in massive quantities, and John relished their flux.

His senses were still heightened, and like this, every one of them was occupied with Sherlock. He could smell him and taste the faint salt of sweat. Sherlock's sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, meaning that his bare forearms were draped over John's back, the tremulous pressure of his hands more tempting than soothing.

John's vision was full of creamy skin and the white of Sherlock's parted collar, the flicker of his pulse in his jugular and the lines of his profile. Even better, he could hear each breath – deep, but quick. It made the parallel to passion even more discernible, and John licked his lips, trying not to moan as Sherlock's proximity meant he also got a taste of humid skin. He breathed an apology, expecting Sherlock to flinch and retreat, a fresh denial on his lips as there had been that night at Angelo's. Instead, he merely gave a delicate shiver and squeezed John's shoulder in reassurance. Not exactly encouragement, but nor was it the outright rejection John feared.

Before he could speak, Sherlock stretched out his arm, snagging the sheet from where it lay on the floor and draping it over John, a thin veil of cool cotton against his flushed body. Normally, it would have relieved him, giving him a fragment of dignity, but it was hard to be embarrassed when a dense cloud of physical satisfaction cocooned his body. His perceptions were indistinct and slow, blissful in a way John had rarely experienced, and there were several minutes of patient peace before he found the energy to speak.

'You could have warned me it would be like this,' he murmured, aware his voice was slurred, as if he were drunk. God, it was like he'd had a really good massage. Even the desire, which refused to ebb due to Sherlock's proximity, was little more than a tiny knot in the smooth flow of his mood. 'Is it always like this?'

'Yes,' Sherlock murmured. 'Everything you're currently experiencing is normal after a return transformation.' John could hear a curl of amusement in his voice as he repeated, ' _Everything_. Hence the sheet.'

Knowing that Sherlock had been in a similar state of arousal didn't do much for John's composure, and with a reluctant sigh, he peeled himself away from the allure of Sherlock's embrace. It was that or press himself closer – lick and bite, kiss and take – and John knew that wasn't an option. Not now, riding a ridiculous high from slipping so easily from one body to another. Just because Sherlock hadn't pulled away, that didn't mean he was inviting John to take what he wanted.

Blinking his eyes open, he let out a shaky sigh, tugging the sheet tight around his body as he sat back on his heels.

Agile fingers touched his jaw, slamming the world back into focus, and for one dizzy, ecstatic moment John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him. Instead, that soft touch swept back, tracing the thud of his pulse as Sherlock cradled John's chin. 'How do you feel?' he asked quietly.

John drew in a deep breath, watching Sherlock's eyes darken. His lips were parted and full, far too enticing, and a faint line marred his brow – the only indication of his lingering concern. He was on his knees, his shoulders at-ease and his head tilted. Every angle of Sherlock's body spoke of tenderness, and he would have to be deaf not to hear the hope in that deep voice.

He considered the question, trying not to smile at the easy glide of his muscles and the smoothness of his joints. It was as if years had been stripped from him, their veils torn away. He felt not just healthy and satisfied, but unstoppable.

Gently, he lifted his hand to cover Sherlock's, nudging at the palm that cupped his face as a thankful, disbelieving grin escaped him.

'I feel amazing.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A mews house is a converted stable-block type building.  
> B xxx
> 
> * * *

Mellow firelight sent tongues of warmth across John's fur as he basked in front of the hearth, eyes half-closed in enjoyment. Over the past few days, he had spent more time in wolf form than not, gradually acclimating to his new body and the transformation required to get from one state to the other.

It was foolish to have feared this for so many months. Now, thanks to hours of limitless experimentation and Sherlock's surprising, patient care, John realised how wrong he had been. He needed this, perhaps not with such desperation as he required his next breath, but it was essential all the same. Without it, he would have led nothing but a half-life, stunted by his own refusal to acknowledge his potential.

With a yawn, he settled his chin on his paws, his tail thumping the floor as Sherlock's fingers idly circled his ears. His flatmate lay on the couch, his gaze unfocussed as he lost himself in thought. Such a sight was not unusual, and John appreciated the peace, allowing Sherlock's gentle ministrations to soothe his tired mind.

The frequent changes left him euphoric but weary, as if he had run a marathon. Immense satisfaction overwhelmed him with each improvement and new discovery, and his joy was only tempered by the consequences.

Hunger was a constant companion. His stomach kept up a litany of demands, and he was fairly sure he had never eaten so much in his life. Then there was the exhaustion. Sometimes, he made it to bed, smooth-skinned and upright, but others he curled up in front of the fire as he was now, his tail brushing his nose as he slipped into the bottomless chasm of slumber. It was an alarming, intense kind of rest, but it was worth it for the way he felt when he awoke. Refreshed didn't begin to cover it. Even as a kid, he didn't think he'd ever experienced such an excess of energy, rising eager for the day ahead.

Sherlock viewed the entire experience with amused curiosity and not-particularly-subtle pleasure. After weeks of denial and resistance, John's surrender could have been taken as a petty victory by the consulting detective, yet there was no “I told you so”. Sherlock guided John through everything, answering even the most obscure questions with logical, practical information.

What could have been an ordeal was instead an adventure, because Sherlock was there to look after him. In fact, he'd stayed firmly two-legged the entire time, giving John the safety net of knowing there was always someone around with the useful combination of an intelligent mind and opposable thumbs, should anything go wrong. He encouraged John to explore every nook and cranny of the flat, upstairs and down, and when John's questions ran out, Sherlock initiated a stream of his own, intrigued by his opinion. John answered as best he could, listening intently as Sherlock contributed, increasingly open about his own time both avoiding the transformation and succumbing to it.

'Do you feel safe?'

The query teased John from his reverie. The finger stroking his ear stopped, and he butted his head against Sherlock's hand, letting his friendly behaviour answer for him. Sherlock seemed to get the implicit agreement, because he resumed his brushing caress. It was one thing John noticed: when he was a wolf, the boundaries of their personal space eroded dramatically. Sherlock touched without asking, idle demonstrations of comfort or praise. It could have been an awful mess of condescension, but it satisfied something in John that longed for the positive enforcement.

Even when they were both human, their interactions were different – smooth and flowing. They moved around each other with ease, rarely getting in each other's way and never thinking twice about giving a nudge with an elbow or hip if required. They sat closer as well, and the frequency of small touches – Sherlock's fingers on the back of John's hand, John tweaking a curl or bumping Sherlock's shoulder – increased.

'Good. I know you've been desperate to get out, but it's important for you to build a sense of what “home” means when you're in this shape. Baker Street is yours – your territory, your base. Knowing it's here – not just logically, but instinctively – is essential.' He outlined the point of John's ear, making the appendage twitch. 'If you find yourself in a fight or flight situation, you'll run home to safety, rather than just bolting through the city.'

John huffed in surprise. He had known that being familiar with 221B was important, but the motive hadn't occurred to him. Sherlock's explanation was fundamentally sensible. The past seventy-two hours had demonstrated that, while his mind was human, there were still some animal responses he fought to control. Sherlock knew that, and instead of leaving John to struggle on his own, he created contingencies, ensuring that John never ended up powerless again.

He made a rumbling noise in his chest. Not a purr, which was impossible, but not a growl either. He had begun, that first day, to use it to convey gratitude. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take Sherlock long to understand, and now he watched John from his repose on the couch, his astute eyes softening in silent reply.

After a minute or two, he sat up, stretching with obvious discomfort. The motion sent a wave of fragrance towards John. Reflexively, he compared the plethora of subtle flavours to Sherlock's normal smell and noticed the difference: a faint, flat nuance. Static. Stagnant.

Abruptly, he realised what Sherlock and Greg had detected, no doubt a hundred times more potent, during the time he refused to change. It had been three days since Sherlock transformed, and already there was a hint of suffering, writ large in the perfume that emanated from his skin.

John levered himself to his feet, casting off clinging lethargy with a quick shake before he glared in Sherlock's direction, trying to communicate with nothing but the strength of his expression and a fractional baring of his teeth. He butted at Sherlock's knee, pacing back and forth in a tight line, showing one flank, then the other, before nudging at him again. It was a hobbled game of charades, complex communication broken down into useless mimes.

This time, they seemed to be on the same wavelength, because Sherlock wove his fingers into the fur at John's ruff, stroking soothing patterns through his pelt. 'I can wait a few more days if you need me to. It's one thing to be in wolf form on your own, but if I change...'

John sat on his haunches, squaring his shoulders in an effort to exude confidence. He would be lying if he said he didn't have concerns about how he might react should Sherlock transform now. What if John saw him as a threat? What if Sherlock interpreted John's presence as an intrusion? Would he be able to see the man he knew when observing an animal's body through a wolf's eyes?

With a blink, he pushed his fears away. They were the anxious whispers of the unknown, and the only way to put them to rest was to try it out and see what happened.

Carefully, John grabbed at Sherlock's cuff with his teeth, giving the cotton a tug. Controlling his strength was an ongoing experiment of trial and error, but there was no ripping fabric or the pop of a button coming loose. It was merely a gesture of encouragement, one which Sherlock eventually obeyed, peeling off his shirt and freeing himself from the rest of his clothes before he assumed the familiar crouched position.

This time, though, John didn't look away. He'd been exposed in Sherlock's company so often that any sense of modesty had long since passed. Besides, it was different, seeing Sherlock's body now. The colour balance was strange, and definition was greatly increased. It meant John could make out small marks on Sherlock's skin that were too pale to observe from such a distance as a human.

His gaze was pulled, magnetised, to two scars: old ghosts of past pain. If he had been Sherlock's lover, stroking passionate fingers over his frame, John would have found them. However, with these eyes, proximity was unnecessary. He could detect the distinctive shape: vees of healed damage fringed by dimples of puncture wounds. He had a matching one on his back, shallow but present – the bites that had brought them both to this point.

Sherlock's were higher on his body: one around the bicep of his left arm, the other shadowing the curve of his right shoulder, deep and vicious. John whined in unconscious pity at the sight, shuffling closer even as Sherlock's transformation began.

It was quicker, this time; Sherlock changed with the ease of long practise. The rearrangement of bones was swift, and heat stung John's eyes. Sherlock had explained that the energy output was part of why John was hungry all the time. It took a lot of fuel to get from one shape to the other. Even Sherlock, who rarely ate what could be considered a proper meal, had consumed a full breakfast, lunch and dinner the day he'd shown John how to initiate the process.

When the strange blurriness of the transformation – mottled by shadow and light through John's adapted vision – faded away, he found himself tense, half-expecting something in his gut to object to Sherlock. However, it never emerged. Where he had feared seeing a competing wolf, he just saw his friend: a different shape, yes, but the same man underneath it all. John wagged his tail in greeting, his tongue hanging out as Sherlock cocked his head, probably cataloguing the sight of him, just as he did when human.

Whatever he saw met with his satisfaction, because he huffed and got to his feet, stretching his spine in a long, sinuous roll before nudging his muzzle along the side of John's in greeting. It was neither threatening nor invasive, but fundamentally right. John equated it to the kisses relatives often bestowed, chaste but affectionate, except there was more to it from Sherlock: intimacy, acceptance and a sense of connection, of _you and me._

Delight welled up in John's chest, and he made a happy noise before bounding back, front paws outstretched and his head lower than Sherlock's, tail wagging as he maintained eye contact. Part of him, the bit that was pushing forty, had the grace to be embarrassed, but interactions as a wolf were a lot less complicated. Verbal conversation was layered with meaning and fraught with the potential for miscommunication. In contrast, the gestures that seemed hard-wired into his wolf-muscles were simple concepts, and in this case, puppy-playful.

Sherlock managed to give him a look that suggested any kind of game was beneath him. However, John didn't miss the gleam of curiosity that shone behind the thin veneer of disbelief. Mactire kids probably played with parents and siblings, but Faolchu were on their own most of the time. John would bet anything that a lot of Sherlock's more wolfish tendencies were subsumed by his human side. His control was excellent, but John wondered if maybe he had missed a large proportion of the experience simply because he had no one to share it with.

Well, until now, anyway.

It took a nip at Sherlock's ear to get him to react: nothing painful, John was careful to cause no harm, but it made Sherlock's eyes widen in affront. He instinctively retaliated with a tiny bite of his own – a subtle edge of teeth applying pressure to thin fur and delicate skin. Within moments, they devolved into mock-wrestling, rolling each other only to bounce away, knocking over furniture as harmless growls rumbled through the air.

Before long, they were both panting, their eyes bright as they chased each other around the sofa. One of the rugs skidded under John's paws, dumping him in a graceless heap that made the fridge rattle. He was off again before Sherlock could catch up, wriggling under the coffee table and waiting, his ears flattened.

A tug on his tail made John yelp in surprise. Sherlock was standing on the wooden surface above his head, peering underneath with a mixture of amusement and surprise, as if he had never imagined John could be so juvenile.

Footsteps on the stairs made them pause, looking towards the door as a slender hand tapped on the wood. 'Wohoo! Are you boys decent?' Mrs Hudson eased her way inside when Sherlock barked, pursing her lips to pinch back an amused smile. 'Oh, you two! Look at the mess you've made!' She gestured to the overturned chair and the rug bunched up in the kitchen, shaking her head. 'There are better places for this kind of behaviour, you know. Go and explore the alleys. I'll leave the back door open for you.'

John was off like a shot. His feet barely touched the floor as he clattered down the stairs and breathed in the smells of everyone who had come and gone: Lestrade, Mycroft, Anthea, Mrs Hudson and various clients.

Their landlady called after him, fondly amused. 'Be in by eleven, mind, or you'll spend the night out there. And Sherlock, don't try climbing the fire escape like you did last time. You made so much noise the neighbours complained to the police.'

John looked up to see Mrs Hudson petting Sherlock's ears, her frail fingers tracing patterns through the short fur. It was a brief gesture, one that, if human, Sherlock would have baulked from. Now, though he allowed it with grace, yipping in grudging acknowledgement of her instructions before following John.

He could sense Mrs Hudson's curious observation and Sherlock's protective scrutiny as he drew in the heavy, damp air from under the door of 221C and the dichotomy of baking and lavender that seemed to permeate their landlady's domain. True to her word, the back door was unlocked, and John shoved it aside, falling into the alley beyond in his eagerness to explore. Only the desire to do so with Sherlock at his side restrained him, shifting and impatient, as he lifted his snout and dragged a breath deep into his lungs.

To a normal person, it probably wouldn't be pleasant: rubbish, the Thames, car exhaust and the undeniable stench of urine. Yet now, the facets spooled through his comprehension in a myriad of tones. They were no longer generic and distasteful, but identifiable: curry wrappers and fish and chips, the paths of stray dogs and the higher, treble accent of cats. Rats scurried and scrambled, flashes of movement within the sodium-edged gloom, and more than once John caught a different kind of fragrance which he decided must be a fox – all within a few steps of the flat.

He padded around as he chased particular odours, plucking them like threads from a tapestry and following their weave. John was so engrossed that he did not realise he was alone until the aromas blurred and released him from their thrall, diffused by the puddles that dappled the ground.

Looking up, he found himself in one of the blank, unremarkable alleys somewhere at the back of Baker Street. From this perspective it was impossible to identify, and he flicked his ears in irritation, a whining query catching in his throat as he endeavoured to call to Sherlock.

There was no response, and John glared at the damp walls that formed the maze in which he'd so carelessly lost himself. Normally, he would have to rely on his memory to get him back. However, his nose was a more reliable guide. Picking up his own scent was not challenging, not with it laid so fresh and obvious through London's night, but after a few minutes, he ran into a problem. Not the lack of data, but an abundance of it: abrasive and chemical.

John shied away, noticing with stinging eyes a bottle of white spirit that had been knocked over. It obliterated everything, effectively rendering his olfactory senses useless. He could still see, but it was like being blind-folded all the same.

Flattening his side to the wall, he inched around the offending contaminant, only taking deep breaths of the air when he was clear of its influence. Not that it did him any good. The caustic smell remained like an aftershock, making him sneeze, and he sat down on his haunches, trying to recognise where he was by sight.

Suddenly, it was as if someone had put their hand in the space beside his ear, not touching him, but proximal all the same. He flinched, staring around at the empty air before ducking his head and flattening his ears, his hackles bristling. The pressure was subtle, but it did not abate. Instead, it became internal – a meagre weight behind his eyes like a tension headache as a trickle of images stuttered through his awareness: test tubes, Petri dishes, a microscope...

_Experiment._

When Greg had spoken about Mactiri communicating mind-to-mind, John had assumed he'd meant in sentences, like someone talking in your head, not a jumble of concepts with occasional emotional attachment. Still, there was no denying that the input had come from outside of him, and John's heart squeezed happily. He'd hoped that the changing dynamic between himself and Sherlock could be identified as some kind of pack, but this was the proof – a quiet whisper of Sherlock's thoughts within the privacy of John's skull.

And of course, the monumental first attempt was quintessentially Sherlock: scientific and curious.

John tried to reply: _What the fuck are you playing at?_ When the only response was baffled confusion, he gave it another go, simplifying it down to one, resounding question mark.

That did the trick, because the next moment John was assailed by images of mazes, puzzles and maps, all underlined with a warm glow that settled in the pit of his stomach: mischievous and teasing.

_Find me._

Sherlock's meaning was like a whisper in a gale, almost indiscernible in the tempest of John's normal thoughts. It was a strain to pick it out, but once he'd plucked Sherlock's intent free, John held it in the forefront of his mind, constructing his strategy. Using his nose was out of the question, but he had other senses available to him, and Sherlock had left him a trail: smudged paw-prints in the sediment that covered the alley floor.

John followed them, grumbling when he realised the tracks doubled back and around, creating a tangled path for him to pursue. The water from the drains made his job harder, and his amusement steadily faded as he heard the distant sound of Big Ben chiming quarter-to the hour. Mrs Hudson probably wouldn't lock them out at eleven sharp, but he didn't want to risk it, and he doubted Sherlock would surrender when their time was up.

A bark scraped up his throat, loud and demanding, as he flung various complaints out into the night. A headache was beginning to build behind his eyes, and it intensified when Sherlock's reply oozed into his mind, dimmer now and harder to understand. John attempted to hang onto it, but it was like trying to catch steam. In the space of a heartbeat, the feeble sense of Sherlock vanished all together, leaving John cold and alone.

Pacing frantically, he narrowed his eyes at his surroundings. His nose was starting to clear, allowing him to pick up the loudest notes of fragrance around him, but none of them were Sherlock. It had started to drizzle, a light mist of rain that smothered everything, leaving only the strongest, embedded stench of London to assault John from all sides.

He was about to turn tail and head back to 221 when a pattering gallop reached his ears. He yelped in surprise as a big, black shadow barrelled into his side, bringing with it a furious mental flood of safety/home/protection. There was also a glimmer of remorse, diamond bright amidst his chaotic consciousness, which soothed his irritation and turned his angry bite at Sherlock's muzzle into a nudge instead: apology accepted.

Sherlock shifted until he and John were facing each other, pressing his brow forcefully against John's forehead. He shivered as he sensed the deliberate care with which Sherlock communicated the next concept. It was still like shouting across the length of a football pitch, but the message was one of violin strings and bleeding fingers, arm ache from moving the bow and the reward of a beautiful, flawless melody.

Practise. John realised. Like any new skill, they needed to practise.

Without a doubt, it would be worth it.

**********

The next ten days passed swiftly, and John's life fell into a different pattern of stability. He would work at the surgery and help Sherlock with cases as usual, but in every moment of spare time and every turn of thought was the idea of his other form: a hidden strength.

Gradually, he began to explore further afield, cloaked in London's night and shadowed by Sherlock's constant attendance. The rough strata of tarmac and cobbled streets pressed memories into his paws, and the dew from the grass of Regent's Park decked his fur in crystals as he reacquainted himself with the city he called home.

The only blight to his new existence was the headaches. The telepathic communication with Sherlock improved by the day, but like exercising a muscle, it came with a price. A lead weight seemed to have settled behind John's eyes, heavy and dragging. It brought with it a low edge of nausea, and sometimes, if they overdid their efforts, he and Sherlock would find themselves slumped on the sofa, propping one another up as the pain cracked through their skulls in unison.

They'd gone through more paracetamol than John believed was medically advisable, but it was a fair price to pay for the results. The first day, they had been able to communicate vague concepts and gossamer emotions. Now, when Sherlock projected something, it was a lover's whisper in John's ear: cohesive sentences that slipped through his mind like hot honey. Every time he did it, John's shoulders slackened and his spine uncoiled.

John was equally able, and it was enticing to watch those full lips part and Sherlock's lashes flutter with pleasure whenever John spoke inside his head. Yet it was about more than communication. Without fail, Sherlock's words were accompanied by a startling depth of sentiment. To John, it was like glimpsing a room brimming with undiscovered treasure. Of everyone, he was the one Sherlock allowed to see beneath the indifferent exterior. What he found behind the mask made his heart jump, and he was helpless to do anything but answer in kind, pouring himself, his shadow and his light, into every reply.

Thankfully, just because they could communicate mind-to-mind, it didn't eradicate their privacy. If he wasn't trying to reach Sherlock, then all John received was the subdued awareness of another presence.

Occasionally, he could glean surges, like strong anger or elation, but he had no idea what Sherlock was thinking unless Sherlock put his mental process on display. He'd been assured the reverse was true, which was a relief. There were some things John would rather keep to himself.

Even before their new ability manifested, their personal boundaries had begun to blur. Now, they were almost non-existent, and the lust John had fought to keep under control took on new dimensions. It sent down deep roots, blooming in the dark, secret places until there was no way he could ignore it.

If it had just been about sex, John would have known what to do. He could satisfy that craving without Sherlock's assistance, but he wasn't stupid enough to believe his situation was so straight-forward. Sherlock mattered in ways John wasn't sure he could explain. He'd been in love before, or thought he had, but it hadn’t been like this.

They shared a home and solved cases together, enjoying each day in surprising harmony. However, in those times when they were separated, rather than being glad of the space, John found his mind lingering on conversations and moments of closeness. He ached to be in Sherlock's company, as happy to share quiet hours of domesticity as he was to race through the city at his side. The idea of living without Sherlock had become one that John couldn’t fathom.

That was probably why he hadn't brought his feelings into the light. There was a lot to lose if Sherlock wasn't of the same mind, and even if he was, there was no guarantee they wouldn't destroy their friendship in the search for something more. He could lose his home, his best friend, his pack.

John blinked hurriedly out of his panicked thoughts, shaking them aside as he had done repeatedly over these past few days. Beneath his happiness, he felt like a violin string pulled too tight, stressed to breaking point by the burden of everything left unsaid. Yet he never found the courage to speak his mind. Today was no different in that respect.

The taxi they occupied slowed to a crawl, and John sighed as reality impinged upon his thoughts. Sherlock was restless at his side, quivering with restraint. He'd accepted fewer cases while John got used to changing shape, and the deprivation showed. Mercifully, it hadn't taken much effort to convince Greg to throw them a bone, and now the police cordon was coming into view.

A minute later, the cab idled at the kerb, and John paid the driver before climbing out, jogging to catch up with Sherlock. Fresh spring air wormed its way under his collar, making him shiver, and he smothered a smile as Sherlock closed the fractional distance between them, their shoulders brushing as they walked. The gesture, so absent and instinctive, as if Sherlock's highest priority was John's well-being, spawned a new thrill in his stomach, and he drew in a breath as he relished the bitter-sweet ache.

Maybe he longed for more – to cross the last line from friends to lovers and see where that journey led them – but if this was all he could have, then he'd take it and be glad.

'It's about time you two got here,' Greg called out, jerking his head towards the building. 'Tim Mayhew: shot in the head. Found by his landlady.'

'What do you need me for?' Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as the DI grimaced.

'Look, it might not be a locked room or whatever, but frankly we need all the help we can get. You'll see why in a minute.' He scowled. 'Well, I say “see”... You may want to hold your breath.' He pushed open the front door, and John flinched, recoiling from the battering-ram of fragrance. Sherlock's gloved hand covered John's nose in a flash, overwriting the bite in the air with the soft scent of leather. It didn't lessen the burn, but it was enough for John to gather his senses against the unexpected bombardment.

'Stink bomb,' Greg explained, his voice nasal as he tried not to inhale. His expression seemed weary, but there was a twinkle of mirth in his eyes as Sherlock dropped his hand from John's face, allowing him to press his own coat sleeve across his airways instead. 'One made especially to interfere with any Faolchu or Mactire. Everyone knows they congregate in the force, and criminals disrupt more scenes with the damn things than we'd like.'

'What for?' John managed, trying not to cough as the acidic stench scraped down his throat.

'It means we can't sniff out anything useful. We have to rely entirely on forensics. Don't get me wrong, it does the job, but it makes our lives harder.'

He led the way up the narrow stairs to one of the bedrooms, passing Sally where she hovered at the end of the corridor, rubbing at her temples and breathing through her mouth. 'He's not going to be any better off than the rest of us, you know,' she complained, gesturing in Sherlock's direction. 'His nose is just as messed up as ours!'

'He's not here because he's Faolchu. He's here because he's Sherlock. He sees in a couple of minutes what it takes Anderson hours to process.'

'Because he ignores procedure!' the Forensics Lead complained, shaking his head in disbelief when Sherlock stepped into the room. Anderson's eyes were bloodshot, but they still carried a hard gleam of annoyance and distaste as Sherlock approached the corpse where it lay on its side under the window.

Taking a deep breath through his mouth, John braced himself, knowing the fog would be stronger closer to the body. Instinct warned him to keep his distance, but he didn't belong hovering on the edges of a crime scene. His place was with Sherlock, and if he had to bully his way through a harsh cloud of fumes to get there, then so be it.

Crouching down at Sherlock's right, he ran his gaze over the victim, taking in the youthful face, eyes half-lidded and lax. His clothes were comfortable but expensive, and his hair was artfully ruffled in a rough-and-ready style that probably took a disproportionate amount of maintenance.

'What do you see?' Sherlock asked, glancing his way.

'Not a lot. Looks to be in good health apart from the gunshot wound. It's not suicide, at least not at first glance. Bit challenging to shoot yourself in the back of the head.' He stared at the messy exit injury in the victim's brow, devastating, but relatively small. 'Whoever did it was standing some distance away. This kind of thing isn't normally so clean.' He shook his head and shrugged. 'Not got much else for you. Perhaps if I could pick up anything except that god-damn stink...'

John caught a hint of amused mental disapproval: a soft reminder that he had four other senses that weren't handicapped by the vapours choking the small house.

'He's in his early thirties,' Sherlock said out loud, his voice strong enough to be heard by Greg and Sally who stood nearby. He reached out, picking up the victim's hands and giving them a cursory examination. 'Calluses say computer programmer; swelling around the knuckles, particularly on the thumbs, suggest he's a console gamer. You'll probably find he codes and tests new software for a major developer. Also, he's a  
Mac Tiré.'

'How can you tell?' Sally demanded, her voice riddled with disbelief. 'You can't possibly smell it.'

'For one thing, he's not wearing any jewellery, not even a watch, which is at odds with his style of clothing. Secondly, the first thing most bi-morphs do when they walk into a room is scent the air. It's an instinctive behaviour which requires an obvious flaring of the nostrils.' Sherlock glanced up, his gaze astute. 'You do it, as do Lestrade and John. However, you two, born as you were, have been indulging in the habit your entire lives. As such, you share the same indicator as our victim: telling wrinkles over the flanges of the nose.'

'He could still be a Faolchu,' Anderson pointed out, the term clumsy and harsh in his mouth as Greg and Sally both absently brushed their fingers over the arches of their nostrils.

'The skin there is thin and taut. Any flaws in its surface take decades to form; you wouldn't see them this pronounced on a Faolchú of this age, unless they'd been bitten as an infant, which is highly unlikely.'

'Anything else?' Greg asked, his hands on his hips as he observed Sherlock. 'Something about whoever did this?'

'No bruises or torn fingernails,' Sherlock replied, shaking his head, 'nor any obvious signs of a struggle. At first glance it looks like the victim wasn't aware of his attacker.'

'But –?' John asked, hearing the shadow of inappropriate interest in Sherlock's voice.

He gestured to the nearby desk, where the angle of the chair implied the victim had been sitting. The bullet was embedded in the plaster: a punctuation mark in a halo of startling, rusty red. 'Look. What's missing?'

Like puppets on a string, everyone turned to examine the furniture in question. John straightened up to get a better view, taking in the paper, the pen pot and a half-full cup of tea, which would never be finished now.

'Come on,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'A computer programmer so involved in his career his body bears its physical tells. For calluses like this, he must work long hours, both in the office and at home, so where's the computer on which he codes?' He got to his feet, indicating shallow scratches on the desk's surface. 'He owns a laptop or similar portable device. He takes it with him on his commute. It's possible he even programs on the train. It was there when he was shot; see the void on the desk?' He waited as they all obliged. 'Now look at the wall.'

'It – it hasn't left one?' John frowned, trying to make sense of it. 'Or not much of one anyway.' He pointed to a narrow stripe of clear paintwork where the table's surface was butted up against the wall. 'Unless it's this?'

'Exactly. You're on your laptop, someone enters the room and you don't want them to see what you're working on, so what do you do?' He looked straight at John, one brow lifted before he rolled his eyes. 'Think! You do it when you're trying to prevent me from correcting your atrocious grammar on a blog post.'

'You shut the screen,' Sally cut in, 'but not entirely, because that makes the machine hibernate, so you leave it open a couple of inches. That way, you can get straight back to it without mucking about with a log-in.'

'Our victim knew he wasn't alone, and he knew our killer,' Sherlock surmised. 'If it was a stranger, he would have shut it all the way, locking the device to protect his code. Also, he would have stood up to issue a challenge. This was someone else: a friend, possibly, but I'd investigate his work colleagues.'

'What makes you say that?' Greg's expression was focussed and trusting, and his gaze did not waver at Anderson's squawked protest.

'He's guessing! He can't _know_ anything! It's probably just a burglary gone wrong.'

'If that was the case they would have stripped this place clean. Whoever did this killed him and took the laptop, nothing else. They're not interested in the value of the device. They wanted to get their hands on his code.' Sherlock took a deep, deliberate breath through his nose, his eyes closed and his face serene even as John shuddered in sympathy. His sinuses were aching in protest and he was deliberately trying not to inhale. Sherlock might not show it, but that must have hurt.

'The stink bomb shows pre-meditation, and they came armed with a gun. Whatever he was working on, it was worth the risk.'

'Is there really that much money in the gaming industry?' Greg asked, wincing as Sherlock sniffed and cuffed away a thin, red trickle of blood from his nostril, careful not to contaminate the crime scene. John twitched, fighting back the edgy aggravation that assailed him at the sight. Logically he knew the injury was minor: a burst capillary thanks to the acidic bite in the air, but that didn't lessen the thrum of protectiveness that shot along his nerves.

'Yes, although you're assuming that what was stolen pertains to his current employment. That may not be the case. Most programmers as passionate as our victim often have personal development projects. It could be something he was putting together in his spare time, something that would bring him additional funds or prestige.'

Sherlock rose, turning away with no more than a nod of acknowledgement at Greg's thanks. He strode through the house with quick, determined paces, trotting blindly down the stairs and wiping his nose again as his attention was consumed by whatever he was looking at on his phone.

'Hey wait. Hold on.' John grabbed his sleeve, pulling him to a halt in the comparatively fresh air of Page Street. He cupped Sherlock's jaw with both hands, urging him to lift his head so he could get a look at the sluggish trickle of blood. 'What the hell did you do that for?' he demanded. 'Everyone else had the common sense to breathe through their mouths.'

'It was necessary,' Sherlock replied, looping his grasp around John's wrist, the blandness of his words tempered by the rush of gratitude that flowed from Sherlock's mind. 'Black market devices for obscuring the air are distinctive. Cheap to produce, they're often a mixture of solvents, such as turpentine or paint-stripper: high intensity fragrances to overwhelm any canines on the force. Up close, this one is different. It should be obvious at this distance.'

He raised his eyebrows, encouraging John to inhale. Tentatively, he obliged, wincing at the wafting stench that emanated from the front door.

'Peppermint?' he frowned at Sherlock. 'And something else, something I don't –'

'Aniseed and lemon. Natural oils. Whoever did this did not have the necessary criminal connections to buy a stink bomb, so they made one. The thing with many of the synthetic chemicals used by illegal organisations is that they are comparatively soluble in water. The pungency is easily washed away, either during rainfall, or by someone taking a shower. Oils cling. To a human, the smell won't be noticeable after an hour or two, but to us...'

'Whoever did this will reek,' John finished, sharing in Sherlock's triumph. 'Brilliant. Why didn't you tell Greg?'

'Scent evidence is often frowned upon in court.' He pursed his lips, easing back from John's palms and returning his gaze to his mobile. 'It's regarded as being too open to interpretation. Lestrade's time is better spent in pursuit of the forensics, and ours is best utilised to find him additional scenes pertaining to the crime.' He turned the phone around, showing John a recruitment profile for their victim, including his current work address. 'If whoever killed Mayhew returned to the office after the event, we'll know it.'

Sherlock lifted his hand to hail a taxi, climbing in and directing the cabbie as he pocketed his mobile. His fingers curled over his lip in thought, and John studied his expression, unwilling to interrupt but plagued by one question that had bothered him for a while.

Rather than speak and clue in the taxi driver to their nature, he formed the query in his head, building up the structure of syntax and embellishing it with overt curiosity before pushing it towards Sherlock. In such close physical proximity, it was simple, and he watched the subtle blush tinge Sherlock's cheeks as the warmth of their mental connection came to the fore.

_“When I change back, my senses revert as well. Everything except my nose. I can smell more on two legs than I could before I was bitten, though I have to admit, it's better still when I'm a wolf. Why is that?”_

He could feel Sherlock considering his response: a velveteen peace that reverberated between them before the answer unfurled, dark and sumptuous, within the vault of John's skull.

 _“Mactírí don't notice; they've never experienced the weakness of the human olfactory sense. They only know their noses are more proficient in wolf form.”_ Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug. _“I assume it's another evolutionary impact. Those of our kind who had a more efficient sense of smell regardless of their shape were better equipped to survive. It's a vulnerability the criminal classes exploit. Hence the advances in forensic science: necessity.”_

John frowned, considering the answer. _“But our other senses didn't change?”_

_“One assumes they were not inadequate in the first place, and that a permanent improvement was of no benefit.”_

John had learnt over time to pay as much attention to the emotions underpinning Sherlock's words as the vocalisations themselves. In that moment, he could sense pride at John's curiosity and desire for knowledge, annoyance at not being able to provide more than a theoretical answer, and an indistinct melancholy. The latter, John realised, stemmed from the fact that, even now, there was still a great deal that remained unknown about the condition they shared.

Silently, he edged towards Sherlock, leaning with comfortable companionship against his shoulder. Instantly, the pressure was returned, and John hid a smile as a flood of sentiment washed through him: warm, familiar and affectionate.

Maybe Sherlock didn't have the answers to all John's questions, but perhaps, he thought contentedly, they could work them out together.

**********

'Useless.' Sherlock scowled out of the window of the restaurant, glaring through the sea of pedestrians who hurried about their business in the growing twilight.

John chewed his pasta, jabbing his fork in Sherlock's direction. 'Not entirely. We've got a suspect: Richard Kerr. Best mates with our victim, apparently. We've found his address, too.' He gestured across the street, to the trendy mews building that they'd tracked down and had been watching for the past forty minutes. 'Not bad for a couple of hours' work.'

'But there's no indication that Mayhew was creating anything of interest.'

'You're just aggravated because you couldn't hack his machine.' John smirked as Sherlock threw him a disgruntled glare. 'You said it yourself: it could be a personal project. Perhaps our vic told his mate, and he decided he wanted in on it.'

'Something worth killing for.' Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth, the fingers of one hand drumming idly in the space where a plate should be. John had tried to tempt him with bread from the basket, leaving it pointedly in Sherlock's way, but he'd dismissed it with barely a glance. 'His residence is a new development, one of those annoying renovations. The only way in is a card swipe system, and the CCTV is _ridiculous_.'

By which Sherlock meant impenetrable. His picks were no good against digital locks and the security around the building was adequate to deter his more risky behaviour. John had demanded dinner before Sherlock could work himself into an irate tantrum and do something stupid, like climbing a drainpipe or attempting access via the sewers.

'We don't even have enough to help Lestrade get a warrant,' Sherlock growled, making John's spine twinge with equal parts excitement and apprehension.

In a flurry of movement, he had his phone in his hand again, and John scoffed three more mouthfuls. He knew the warning signs of an imminent departure, and if he wasn't going to get dessert then he would damn well finish his dinner.

The screen cast an ethereal glow on Sherlock's features, turning his eyes bright silver and darkening the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. His expressive brow was pinched in a frown of concentration, and his pupils contracted in unfaltering focus.

'Found a way in?' John asked, wiping his hand over his mouth and setting down his cutlery, already reaching for his wallet to pay the bill. 'One that won't end up with us in hospital or under arrest?'

'No, but maybe we won't need to gain access. Waste collection's tomorrow, and while this residence is clearly geared towards protecting the privacy of the occupants, the rubbish is unlikely to be so well-concealed. With any luck, we'll find something probative. Come on.'

John left some cash on the table and trotted after him, turning up his coat collar against the chill. The air was cold and damp with the threat of rain, and he glanced up at the sky, overcast and growing dim as the sun completed its descent.

Sherlock's coat whirled behind him as he passed the front gate of the suspect's apartment building, his head bowed and his eyes wicked beneath the slant of his brow. Turning a sudden right, he slipped along an alleyway that was little more than a space between two buildings, almost too narrow for his slender frame. Neither of them quite had to turn sideways, but it was a close-run thing, and John ignored the press of claustrophobia until the passage opened up again, allowing him to breathe a sigh of relief.

A high boundary wall blocked their way forward, its new brickwork interrupted by gas and electric meters, which stood out from the stone face, providing adequate footholds. In less than ten seconds, Sherlock had boosted himself over the summit, his landing on the other side a sharp report before silence fell.

John waited, shuffling from one foot to the other until his patience ran out. With a grunt of effort, he managed to clamber onto the gas meter box and then, arms shaking, pulled himself up so he could see over the top of the wall. There was nothing on the other side to break his fall, and he muttered a curse as he took the plunge.

His knees clicked and his hips ached, but he didn't land on his arse or do himself any permanent damage. With a sigh of relief, he crept up to Sherlock's side, pressing his back hard to the wall as he surveyed the small courtyard in which they found themselves. There was the open mouth of an arch that led to the underground car-park and, just as Sherlock had guessed, several overflowing bins placed nearby.

'What now?' John asked, following Sherlock's gaze and noticing that, here at least, the CCTV was less intimidating. There was one camera watching the car-park and another monitoring the large, metallic gate that blocked this part of the complex off from the rest of the world. 'Great,' he hissed, gesturing to it. 'How are we meant to get out of here? The wall's sheer on this side, so we can't go back the way we came.'

Sherlock indicated the mechanism, not a key or swipe-card system, but a simple push button. 'They want to keep people out, not lock them in. Security is less stringent on this side,' he murmured, checking the cameras were fixed and unmoving before he approached the bins. 'We're looking for anything that smells like peppermint and aniseed, assuming that the stink bomb was created here, of course. Failing that, any objects that might either implicate Kerr or exclude him from the investigation.'

John sighed, unable to pick up much over the general odour of food waste and the dry, ashen scent of paper. That was, until Sherlock opened one of the bags and the perfume assaulted them both, making them rear back.

'That's it,' John croaked. 'Christ, it reeks.' He watched as Sherlock carefully set aside the empty bottles, their lids absent so that their mouths leaked the same, stringent fragrance that they'd found at the crime scene. Once he was sure they were secure, he searched the rest of the bin's contents, his brow creasing in a frown as he pulled free some paperwork and examined the text.

'What is it?' John stood on tiptoes, trying to read over his shoulder.

'A flight itinerary. According to this, our suspect left for a conference in California three days ago, and isn't due back until the day after tomorrow.' Sherlock pursed his lips, his gaze flickering back to the incriminating glass vessels. 'Either he missed his plane, or someone else at his address is responsible.'

He stepped back, yanking off his gloves with his teeth and looking amused as John complained, 'You've just been touching rubbish with those.'

'I've survived worse,' he promised, pulling out his phone and sending a text, the screen dimming as his missive flew off to its destination. 'That should be enough for Lestrade to be going on with. Come on, I want to have a sniff around.' He checked the CCTV cameras again, his lips quirking in satisfaction as he shrugged out of his Belstaff, leaving John staring in alarm.

'What – literally?'

'I need to be at my best. The aroma will stick to the skin of whoever mixed it – our murderer – and leave a discrete trail. If we can follow it, it could lead us straight to them.'

Removing his clothes and shoes, he tucked them neatly in an empty cardboard box at the side of the waste collection point. His body gleamed, pale and unearthly in the dim light, and he hunkered down in the shadows, his eyes sliding shut as John stood with his feet apart: a defiant sentry.

He ignored the visceral sounds of Sherlock's transformation, instead listening for the noise of anyone approaching, either on foot or by car. Mercifully, they were left in peace, and by the time Sherlock sat on his haunches, John was already undoing the zip of his coat and toeing his way out of his boots. 'Two noses are better than one,' he said in response to Sherlock's questioning look. 'We can cover more ground this way. Does Lestrade know what we're doing?'

 _“I imagine he's surmised the truth.”_ Sherlock's voice slipped like fiery silk through John's mind, fond irritation and grudging respect at Lestrade's methods as clear as day. _“We have perhaps twenty minutes before he chases us down.”_

With a sigh, John tried to ignore the crawling sensation of getting his kit off in public. He and Sherlock always changed at Baker Street, where his modesty had faded away as inconsequential. Out here it was a different matter, and he gritted his teeth as he placed his clothes on top of Sherlock's and crouched, pulling aside the dam that held back the power of his change and letting it consume him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock standing guard: a lethal, motionless paladin. However, as soon as he noticed John was ready, he slunk away, his claws clattering on the tarmac before he pushed the button that would open the gate. It clanked like some hideous contraption, each scrape of metal and squeal of blooming corrosion an abomination to John's ears. He flattened them to his head in annoyance, head down and cringing as they slipped through at the earliest opportunity.

They were at the back of the building, in an empty, narrow road that stretched away in both directions. There was plenty to fill John's sinuses with its song, but nothing like the oil caught his attention. A gentle wind blew from the left, and he watched Sherlock lift his muzzle, sniffing before giving his head a doggy shake.

 _“We'd scent it if it came downwind,”_ he broadcast by way of explanation, his words tinged with memories of chasing rabbits through lush green grass and being given away by the wrong breeze at the wrong time. _“Follow me.”_

Silently, John obeyed, absently recoding the particular flavour of this environment and committing it to memory. Yet he had learned his lesson. His nose could be removed from the equation at any moment, overwhelmed by information, and he used every other sense available to cement his surroundings in his mind.

Sherlock's tail was a shadowy banner ahead, one which fell motionless when they came to a junction. The wind ruffled the fur along John's spine, and he jerked as that same, acrid perfume burnt his nasal passages.

Except, this time, it wasn't an all-consuming fog. He could still make out the redolence of the city beneath the bright trail of peppermint someone had left in their wake.

 _“Not one person, two,”_ Sherlock corrected him, turning his head left towards the main street and the bustle of London's evening crowd. _“It's muted in that direction. Not whoever mixed the oils, but someone close to the one who did. Family, lover – flatmate maybe.”_

 _“So whoever we're after went the other way.”_ John jerked his head to indicate the narrow street that led into one of London's many urban, residential areas. Occasional street-lights gave the air a sallow, sick quality, and litter blocked the gutters. One or two cars were parked at the kerb, their paint scratched and their bodywork dented.

Sherlock's hum of agreement resonated through his brain like the purr of a cat, throaty and intrigued. However, while John could smell the same things as Sherlock, he wouldn't have been able to use the data with such proficiency.

_“Male smoker, probably in his thirties. Alcohol problem. Stinks of apprehension.”_

_“He did just kill someone,”_ John pointed out, the memory of the body rising like a ghost behind his words.

 _“It rules out organised crime or a repeat-offender. Inexperienced, more likely to make mistakes.”_ Something hot and happy rushed along John's nerves, summoned to life by Sherlock's smug superiority. _“Lucky for us.”_

He didn't wait for John's reply as he loped ahead, a sylph-like shape in the darkness. John followed, alert and aware. He would rather hang around for Lestrade and his team – people with handcuffs and the authority to use them – but he knew Sherlock on the hunt: unstoppable. All he could do was trail him, allowing him to lose himself in the pursuit as he kept his eyes open for threats that Sherlock might otherwise overlook.

His paws, protected by pads of toughened skin, barely registered the passage of one street after another. The minutes slipped by, marked out only by their near silent progress and the distant chime of the city's clocks.

At last, Sherlock stopped, a rough, irritated growl reverberating around him as he turned, sniffing both the stonework and the air indecisively. Annoyance bled into earnest puzzlement, and John gave a whine of comfort as he pressed against Sherlock's side. The cacophony of deduction in Sherlock's head was a mere whisper to John, but he could still sense the dull chafe of frustration.

It wasn't hard to tell why. Here, the scent split, seeming to halve in intensity as it did so. Away to the left it was humid and bass, whereas there was a treble accent to the right, all underscored by the sweetness of aniseed and the bitter edge of peppermint.

 _“Which way?”_ he asked, watching Sherlock dither before he shook his head with a huff.

_“Both are possible. We need to separate.”_

John's negative response was emphatic enough to make Sherlock pull back, affronted by the weight of determination that had no doubt just slammed into his brain. _“Are you joking?”_ John demanded. _“We're pursuing an unknown individual through unfamiliar territory, and you want to go alone?”_

 _“You said yourself that we would cover more ground,”_ Sherlock pointed out, and if it was possible for a wolf to look self-satisfied, he was managing it. _“So far all you've done is follow in my footsteps.”_

 _“I was watching your back!”_ John corrected him, his hackles bristling and his head pressed forward as if he could drive his point home through body language alone. _“Please, Sherlock?”_

His friend rolled his eyes, tail flagging and his jaws firmly shut as he gazed into the middle distance before offering a compromise. _“Follow the trail in the other direction for five minutes. That should be enough to ascertain whether it's a dead-end or something meaningful. I won't go far, and you'll be able to find me easily, won't you?”_

With his eyes shut and his nose plugged, probably. John knew Sherlock too well for anything else: a presence against his skin, in his mind and within the bloody cavern of his heart. That didn't mean he was happy with the idea of leaving him alone. Still, John could see it was an argument he'd already lost. Sherlock would shake him off out of spite if he didn't do as he was asked, and this way, at least, he had something like a promise of cooperation.

With a coarse woof, John faced his friend, his brow tapping Sherlock's in a gentle head-butt of emphasis. This close, their telepathy, already fairly clear, became like cut crystal, glistening and absolute. _“Swear you'll be careful.”_

Sherlock snuffled at him, his agreement a collection of positive thoughts. He rubbed the side of his muzzle along John's jaw in reassurance, dipping his snout into the thick fur at John's throat before he pulled back. _“The same goes for you. We don't know who we're facing, but it's logical to assume they may be armed.”_

A lump hardened in John's stomach, and he stepped back, forcing himself to leave even as every instinct urged him to stick to Sherlock like glue. This was no ordinary hunt, and just because Faolchu were fast healers, it didn't mean they were invulnerable. Anything that hit them hard enough or in the right place could bring their lives to an end. A bullet between the eyes and he or Sherlock would be dead in a heartbeat.

Exhaling, he set to work. The sooner he had an answer for Sherlock, the sooner he could be back with him, where he was meant to be.

His feet blurred as he chased the vestigial odour that had led them this far. The streets were mostly empty, narrow and residential, and those few pedestrians who crossed his path gave him a wide berth, their fear a cloying flaw in their base, beefy scent.

A busy road roared nearby, and the thump of a club's music brought him up short. He growled in irritation, realising he was back near where he and Sherlock had started: one street over from Kerr's apartment.

The trail began to tangle, becoming a cloud rather than a line, and he came to a halt in front of a slew of rubbish awaiting collection. Most of it was from the greasy takeaway two doors down, but what he wanted was buried within the heap. He pawed at the bags, ears pricked forward and intent until the bundle rolled free, the plastic covering ripping beneath his claws.

Peppermint washed over him, underscored by a flavoursome, iron tang. He could see fabric, speckled with something that would probably be red to human eyes: blood, accompanied by the burnt smell of gunpowder. The trail had split because the killer had given someone else his clothes to dispose of. John had chased the garments, and Sherlock –

John's heart convulsed, and he turned around, intent on heading back into the darkness. How long had he been gone? A few minutes? More? It was hard to keep track of time in this form beyond the basics of diurnal rhythm, and John gnashed his teeth, his muscles bunching as he prepared to break into a sprint.

A high bark made him hesitate, and he looked over his shoulder, glaring his disdain at the strange canine that rushed towards him, all sleek lines and agile purpose. It was female, smaller than him and obviously built for speed. However, that didn't mean she wasn't dangerous. She had the same teeth as John, and the same muscles in her jaw. That said, she did not look threatening, and John's mind scrambled before the pounding footsteps of Lestrade slotted the puzzle pieces into place.

Donovan watched him through dark brown eyes. She didn't sit down as she might in the presence of a friend, but blocked his way efficiently, giving him a meaningful look that he could only translate as “Stay.”

Greg took in the scene, his breath rushing out of him as he shook his head in disbelief. 'Should have known I'd find you here. Stand down, Donovan. It's John.'

Sally gave her DI a blatantly insubordinate glare, as if she already knew John's identity, before narrowing her eyes and turning towards the evidence he had unearthed. Greg was quick on the uptake, directing his officers to begin processing and taking in the contents with a grim expression. He began talking to the others around him, giving orders and speaking into his radio.

John fidgeted, desperate to move but unwilling to tear off without the cooperation of the police. He tried to call out to Sherlock, hoping he'd come running, but there was an odd, echoing peace where he was used to feeling vivid heat. Not an absence, exactly, but the kind of quiet that spoke of Sherlock's concentration being elsewhere, intent like a laser.

He was stalking someone.

With a whine in Sally's direction, John attempted to convey his urgency. To her credit, Donovan didn't ignore him. They weren't pack, so he couldn't tell her anything, even as he tried to push towards her with his mind. It didn't work that way. Perhaps if Greg had been a wolf, he could have made himself understood thanks to their friendship, but the force had rules about who could transform when, and clearly this was one situation where Lestrade was meant to remain human.

Sally's gaze shifted, and John watched the DI cock his head, ignoring his radio in favour of listening to whatever was going on inside his skull. There was no flutter of pleasure in his expression like the one John experienced when communicating with Sherlock, just a professional tranquillity that sharpened into understanding when Greg took in John's body language. His nostrils flared, and he winced, probably in response to the continuing power of the miasma coming from the evidence, but he seemed to pick up an element of John's uncertainty and creeping distress.

Lestrade opened his mouth, but before he could speak a crack echoed around them, punctuated by a high, chilling yelp, short and brutal.

The sense of friend-comrade-pack that had been John's constant companion exploded in colour and agony. Shards of emotion sliced through his mind in a crippling assault, and he cowered, whines and whimpers scraping their rusty thorns along his throat as Greg surged forward in alarm and Sally fretted at his shoulder, her anxiety palpable.

Yet all he could hear was the roar of chaos from Sherlock's end of their connection, visceral and raw. It was a surging, rolling sense of threat: a dangerous predator released from its cage, and John's stomach writhed in terror.

Another shot rang through the night, and John jerked as if struck. He panted, his tongue lolling as nausea caught in his throat, but the shivery misery of his body was a distant sensation. He was focussed on what lay inside his head, where the feral wave of fury had fallen gravely silent.

Sherlock was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

John lunged to his feet, his paws shattering puddles as he tore through the alleyway, deaf to Greg's shouts and Donovan's dedicated pursuit. The walls passed in a shadowed blur, and parked cars shone like icebergs in the ocean of the night as he burst onto the narrow backstreet and raced towards the junction where he had left Sherlock.

All the while, he screamed in his mind, his internal voice an endless litany of Sherlock’s name. Gone was the hot silk and honey. Now barbs cut at his head, keen and vicious, filling the hollow where Sherlock had been with a briar of fear. Every stunted breath hurt his ribs, and anxiety's burden dragged at John's shoulders, weighing him down as he skidded to a halt.

The phantom of Sherlock's scent lingered, a haze that suggested he had sat here, waiting. He had promised he wouldn't go far, and for a while it seemed like he'd held onto that vow. Yet John could see nothing of him, no gleaming pale eyes or soft, dark fur. There was only the obscurity of London's gloom and John's rasping pants to stir the silence.

He was like a boat lost at sea, bereft of the anchor Sherlock's mental presence provided. Terror clawed at his rationality, but John forced it aside as he hurried onwards, his nose to the ground, dismissing the multitudinous odours of the metropolis in favour of the one that made his blood sing. 

Sherlock's unique fragrance fit perfectly into John's awareness. He had recorded every subtlety, and now his diligence paid off. He could detect the moment when idle curiosity became something pointed: a hunter catching wind of its prey. He knew the precise location where Sherlock began to stalk a target, adrenaline enriching his perfume until John's head was full of it, as if he'd stuck his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck and dragged in a breath.

Looking up, he found himself in the cavernous maw of an old railway tunnel. The bricks arched high above his head, Victorian engineering at its best. Yet it was not a solitary mouth into a bottomless pit beyond, but some kind of hub, and John could smell the life within: the homeless and destitute.

He squared his shoulders, his head low as he stepped forward, only to pull up short as Donovan skidded to a halt, her teeth clattering near his muzzle in warning. He could hear the heavy footsteps of human police, and he bobbed fretfully, weaving back and forth as Lestrade and several other officers hurried up with torches in their hands.

'In there?' Greg asked, nodding to himself before he gave orders to his men. 'We've got at least one suspect, armed and dangerous. Look to the wolves; they'll lead the way. Hold your torches away from yourselves – that way if someone takes a pot-shot at the bulb you'll avoid the worst of it.' He looked at John, gesturing for him to take point. 'Off you go then. Let's find that mad bastard before he does himself some real damage.'

His humour sounded false, and John flattened his ears, trying not to dwell on the fact that they might already be too late. There had been two shots like thunderclaps, and John struggled to believe that neither of them had found their mark. Why else would Sherlock have vanished from his mind? What could have forced every last hint of his existence out of John's head?

Quickly, he shoved the thought away, concentrating on the immediacy of his situation. If it weren't for his sense of smell, John would have doubted the gun's reports came from up ahead, but the aroma in the air told him otherwise. There was soot and rust, age-old iron from the dilapidated tracks beneath his feet, the earthy musk of crumbling stonework and brackish water. On top of all that was the scent of people and Sherlock, weaving bright trails for him to follow.

The vast walls of the tunnels must have carried the sound of gunfire the same as they now amplified every noise. He and Sally were mostly silent: soft-pawed ghosts. However, she was far from blank. He could pick out her alarm, as if, despite the animosity between her and Sherlock, she feared what lay ahead. 

Loose stones beneath his feet released puffs of chalk, and the occasional plant gave a grassy whisper as he trod on them. Deeper within, they found bundles of rags and cardboard boxes, the people inside either asleep or watching them with empty, distrustful eyes. 

Sally started to growl, a threat like the burning fuse on a stick of dynamite. Swallowing around the dryness in his throat, John joined her, his anger shattering the peace as he kept the strangers at bay.

Abruptly, something new caught his attention, making the fur across his shoulders bristle. The metallic piquancy was vivid and offensive, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, yet he sought it out. There was no other choice. Now he'd caught a hint of it, he had to confirm his suspicions.

There. The liquid was black-on-black, glossy in the light of Lestrade's torch. Yet John dismissed the information his eyes offered, breathing in until the fragrance became a flavour and horror leapt in his stomach. 

Blood and Sherlock in repulsive combination slammed through him, and he bolted, thinking nothing of the darkness or the backup he was leaving behind. He had to move, because wherever he was and whatever had happened, Sherlock was hurt and needed John's help.

It was as if someone had lit a firework in his veins, sending incandescent sparks hissing through his body and removing all thought from his mind. Raw power surged through his muscles, and his entire being focussed on the weak path Sherlock had left behind. His joints flexed and his skin prickled as he darted down another fork, his nostrils flaring when the ferrous tang was almost washed away by the churning depths of the nearby river.

Fresh air and featureless gloom hit him simultaneously as the tunnel opened out into a derelict industrial yard. Corroded chain-link fence slumped drunkenly, the wires peeled back like open claws. There were more crimson drops, spattering the ground every dozen paces or so – a wound that dripped, rather than gushed. There was enough sense left in John's head to read the evidence – to know that Sherlock had been sprinting in pursuit of his quarry – but where had he gone?

A tuft of dark fur caught on the talons of the fence was ripe with Sherlock's scent, and John sniffed it, his resolve hardening. He followed the fragrance's wraith without hesitation, wriggling through the gap and taking stock of the abandoned ground ahead: a pitted arena of exposed concrete. There were one or two buildings, huge like aircraft hangers and brimming with abysmal darkness – perfect hiding places.

If he were human, he would have dithered, caught up in indecision's web, but John knew where he was going. He might not be able to hear Sherlock in his head – could only detect a painful void where his friend had once been – but he could sense his existence like fingers brushing over his skin, leading the way.

Loping along the perimeter, John clung to the shadows, never taking his eyes off the warehouse to the right. That was where the data of his environment led him, and he followed, willing but alert, braced for attack. Dimly, he was aware of echoes in the tunnels behind him: Lestrade and Donovan on their way. Yet he wouldn't wait – couldn't. Even his own steady pace chafed like steel wool: an uncomfortable, if necessary, restraint. He'd be no good to Sherlock if he caught a bullet himself.

A flash of iron caught his attention, and his stomach clenched as he saw a bigger splash of rusty red. Gunpowder tainted the air, and he knew he was looking at the after-effects of another attack: the shooter ahead, aiming behind him.

Hitting Sherlock for a second time.

It was a sizeable smear, and the loose, eroded surface of the concrete looked disturbed. Had Sherlock stumbled? Fallen? John gazed at the stain, trying to dispel the noir film of possibilities that scrolled before his mind's eye. There was no body, he told himself, no crumpled bundle of fur awaiting his panic and grief. Sherlock had given chase, just as John was doing now.

Another deep breath made him pause, his mind stumbling over the unfamiliar subtleties of the odours that surrounded him. It was not the iron sweetness of wounded flesh or the oil-and-pepper scent of the gun, nor was it the stressed, sweaty stench of Sherlock's prey, lost in his own panic. This was something base and foreboding. It reminded him of that moment in Afghanistan, when his human nose, weak as it had been, picked up the rank musk of the rogue Mactire who had changed his life forever. 

Was there someone else here?

John shook his head, casting the question aside. He'd worry about that if he stumbled across whatever beast had left such an imprint. Perhaps it had been attracted by the fear emanating from the man Sherlock pursued. Perhaps it was following the same clues that John chased with such determination. Either way, John thought as he entered the shadowy confines of the warehouse, it was not his main concern. He had to find Sherlock.

Skeletal towers of empty shelves rose around him as he padded down endless avenues. His eyes were useless in the dark, and he experienced a brief stab of pity for the person who had fled here in an effort to hide. If the bastard didn't have a torch, then he'd be fucked. However, a panicky man was not much better than a wild animal, especially one armed with a gun, and John tried to orient himself in the alien surroundings, pressing his flank to the wall as a guide.

The musical tinkle of glass made him flinch, and he surged forward as he heard the scrape of running, frantic feet nearby. There was a susurrus of ragged gasps, and John followed the sound, slinking around the corner only to recoil in shock. 

Peppermint slammed into his face and spots danced in front of his eyes. His throat turned dry as his airways burned, and a coughing retch made his ribs heave. He squinted ahead, making out the transparent gleam of a broken vial before the world went to hell.

A heavy weight collided with him as a shot rent the air: a cataclysmic explosion in the empty warehouse. John lay sprawled on his side, dizzy and disoriented as his head ached and his ears rang with aftershocks. It took him a precious minute to realise that it was not a bullet that had borne him to the ground, but the hulking shadow of Sherlock. He stood over John's body with his legs braced, redolent with blood as he growled a monologue of rage.

Light burst forth, as abrupt as a supernova, and John slitted his eyes against the flare of the phone's glow. It was held in the gunman's shaking hand, bleaching their immediate sphere bone-white and casting the pistol into monochrome shades. The weapon trembled, a living thing in the human's grip. Time slowed down around them, treacle-thick, as the nicotine-stained index finger tightened on the trigger.

John tried to move, to barge Sherlock out of the way, but he didn't have the room to get his legs under him. His warnings, scream-loud in his head, fell into the void, and he looked up at the wolf above him, searching for any sign of comprehension. 

There was none. It was as if the halcyon gleam of Sherlock's intelligence had fled, leaving nothing of the man John knew, and his heart sank. This creature that guarded him like a mother over a pup was just that – a _creature_. If it wasn't for the scent of Sherlock all around him, dense enough to over-rule the acidity of mint from the broken vial, John would think his protector was a wild wolf, rather than the Faolchu who had guided him with such patience through the events of the past few weeks.

The gun clicked, its hammer slamming down on an empty chamber as John's body twitched, waiting for the bite of death that never came. There was a heartbeat in which to see the dawning horror and realisation on the man's face – to relish the flood of relief – before Sherlock exploded forward, his teeth bared and his power undeniable.

John barked: a high, fearful sound that echoed between the desolate spars of metal that made up the empty shelves, but no one paid him any mind. The man lunged for the storage units, trying to climb out of reach, but he was too slow as Sherlock slammed into his back, dragging him down to the floor.

Metal creaked, sharp and sonorous as the rusted bolts stabilising the racks gave up their fight, shaken loose by the impact. It was like watching dominoes fall, ponderous at first, but as one tower slammed into the next, John cringed, wishing he could cover his ears to protect them from the squeal of tired, brittle steel.

A crescendo rose, shaking the air in his lungs and the floor beneath his body as dust rained down from the ceiling. Briefly, he feared the roof was about to cave in on top of them, but it held firm, trapping the billowing filth that choked the air as the last crunch of metal died away, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. 

John opened his eyes, taking in the carnage. It was lucky the racks had toppled away from them, creating a small arena of clear space amidst the twisted remnants of struts and fragmented shrapnel. However, there was little time to be grateful as the scene before him captured his attention.

The man lay face-down on the ground, his chest heaving and his body pinned beneath Sherlock. His front paws were on the suspect's shoulders, claws splayed, while his back legs weighed down his thighs. It must have been painful, but somehow John doubted the captive cared. His attention was probably on the teeth that were clamped around his nape, and the terrifying, snarling sounds emanating from deep in Sherlock's chest.

John knew what Sherlock could do. A quick twist, and the man would be dead, his neck broken. For one horrible second, John believed that was his intention. He could read the violence in every rigid line of Sherlock's body, which was thrown into relief when a few tired bulbs flickered to life far above their heads. Lestrade and the others must have arrived and turned on the lights, but it only illuminated what John had already feared.

The strange, wild aroma he had detected outside was not some rogue Faolchu lost to sanity; it was Sherlock. 

His black fur was slick at his left shoulder and along his right flank, but if he felt any pain from either injury, none of it showed. He didn't even spare a glance at John to make sure he hadn't been crushed by the falling shelves. His concentration was on the person trapped by the vice of his jaws. Begging and pleading fell on deaf ears, and every time the man so much as shivered, Sherlock's growls intensified.

John staggered to his feet, his mind racing. Greg and his men couldn't be far away. He could already hear them shouting his name, as well as Sally's demanding barks, but he ignored the noise. He didn't want them finding Sherlock like this.

Ducking his head, he averted his eyes, his tail low and his back hunched as he cautiously approached. He called out, softer now, like one might do to a child in distress, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement as his whimpers harmonised with the telepathic pleas he projected in Sherlock's direction. 

Steely eyes met his gaze, and John ached to see them so blank. Sherlock didn't even look like a beast caught up in the thrill of a hunt. The mercurial depths were expressionless, as if he were merely following the call of some nameless imperative. He did not wag his tail in recognition, but John forced himself to take comfort in the fact that Sherlock's aggression did not shift its focus to him, either. 

It was one thing to attack an armed man, but another to snap his neck when he was down – or worse, bite him. What would happen to Sherlock then? Prison? Would they put him down like an animal?

He pressed his muzzle into the fur at Sherlock's shoulder, avoiding the wound as he tried to push through Sherlock's skin and bones and reach the awareness he knew had to be there somewhere. If he couldn't – it didn't bear thinking about. What could they do? What would it take?

_“Sherlock, please. Come on. I'm here. I'm safe. So are you. Don't do this. Don't.”_

Silence. His mind remained his own, and there was no hint of understanding in the wire-taut body beside him. If John could, he would have choked back a sob of despair. As it was, he pressed his forehead into Sherlock's side, closing his eyes and dragging in one breath after the other of that altered scent. It was so different from the one he knew, but similar enough to soothe him as he offered Sherlock his wordless reassurance.

The man on the floor shifted, and John snarled, harmonising with Sherlock in an extra layer of warning. Stupid twat. Didn't he know the danger he was in? Didn't he understand that one wrong move could be all that was needed to tip Sherlock from menacing to lethal? Besides, this was all his fault. He had fired the gun and brought pain into Sherlock's life. He had driven his logic aside and allowed the wildness to fill its place. Who was to say he didn't deserve whatever punishment Sherlock saw fit to deliver?

It was a dire thought to have, especially when he could hear Greg and the other police getting closer, making their way through the maze of debris. Lestrade was still shouting his name, but John did not turn and look his way. He was too busy staring, furious and loathing, at the individual who had brought Sherlock so low.

His gaze took in the ivory points of Sherlock's teeth in the back of the man's neck, neatly cinched around the column of his cervical vertebrae. Tan skin shone with saliva, and he could see the man's short hair bristling with fear.

Yet Sherlock did not respond. Even with the stink of peppermint all around them, the perpetrator's terror tickled John's nose. It enticed the primitive heat of his anger and stirred up jubilant hopes of the hunt. Surely if Sherlock was as lost as he seemed, he would react? He'd finish him off, wouldn't he?

Pulling away from Sherlock's side, John stilled, searching for the details which he'd overlooked. At first glance, Sherlock was every bit a wolf on the attack, but now John could see that the tension he had first taken for anger was something more controlled. Muscles bunched and shivered, but Sherlock's body remained statue-still. His gaze was on his prey, but where John had initially seen only teeth over vulnerable flesh, he noticed the softness of his grip. The points of Sherlock's fangs barely dimpled the skin, let alone punctured it.

Perhaps it was hard to see the humanity in Sherlock's form, but that didn't mean it was absent. In fact, John was beginning to think it was engaged and internalised, too involved in fighting back the cry of overpowering instinct to make itself known in a way John could interpret. Sherlock wanted to deal out retribution to the man who had caused him harm, that much was clear – John had the same urge – but Sherlock didn't act on it. For the first time since seeing him like this, he understood that perhaps Sherlock still had the upper hand.

'John!' Greg's voice was abruptly close, and he tried not to flinch. He glanced at the DI, who held back the rest of his officers with one raised hand, as if he understood the tenuousness of the situation. 'If you can get Sherlock to back off, one of my guys can put the suspect in cuffs.'

'Get it off me!' 

'Shut up!' Lestrade snapped. 'You should be glad I don't let him have you. If you're lucky, we'll be able to make him let go, but believe me, if you're stupid enough to try and bolt, then you deserve whatever he does to you.' He softened his voice, directing his words at John and Sherlock. 'Steady now, you two. My men need to get to him, and, well...'

He waved a hand in their direction, and John wondered what they must look like. Terrifying, probably. Sherlock was a picture of aggression, and John doubted he was any better. His lips kept pulling back from his teeth distrustfully, and his entire frame was alert for trouble. He didn't want to take his eyes off Greg or the strange police. He wanted to keep Sally in his sights, too because she was coiled, spring-tight, at Lestrade's side, but Sherlock was his highest priority.

With a massive effort, he turned his back on them, renewing his efforts to reach his flatmate. Words hadn't worked so far, but perhaps they were too complex? He began to send images of solving cases together, of eating at Angelo's and giggling at crime scenes. He pushed out the picture of a black door with gleaming brass numbers, of armchairs in front of a fire and the couch they shared.

That was the answer. The emptiness in his head changed, no longer vacant, but cocoon-like, furled tight but steadily unravelling. Sherlock's body shuddered as if he were flinging off water, and he released his grip on the murderer's neck before hesitantly stepping off of him.

The police hurried forward, voices raised and handcuffs gleaming as they were fastened around the suspect's wrists, but John paid them no mind. He pressed himself to Sherlock's side, a grunt forcing its way up his throat as Sherlock slumped against him. He was shaking so hard that John's teeth clattered in sympathy, and he whined in concern when Sherlock tried to put his weight on his hurt leg, which immediately collapsed. 

A flash of pain arced across their connection, and John winced at the weakness of it. What had been a strong bond was now cobweb frail, as delicate as it had been the first day they discovered it. Resistance filled its tangled length, and John was left broadcasting his concern/fear/uncertainty. He sniffed first at the wound in Sherlock's shoulder, then at the one on his side, able to detect injured flesh but no bullet fragments or other debris. He hoped they were just grazes, but he couldn't see the wounds for the fur, and one nuzzle must have hurt, because Sherlock snapped at him, his lips pulled back over his teeth.

Again, he tried to get a message across, one of help and healing, but he doubted Sherlock could make any sense of it. John didn't understand what was happening to his friend, and he hated it. Resentment for the limitations of his current shape bubbled in his gut, and a growl rumbled in his chest as he meticulously pictured the concept of transforming for Sherlock to discern.

He wasn't sure what happened. One minute he was trying to push his way under the folded wings of Sherlock's mind, the next, he was almost lost beneath the wave of his consciousness. Intelligence and morality were mere suggestions behind the monoliths of fury and protectiveness, pain and hunting instinct. It was visceral, blinding in its intensity, and John fought to stay afloat rather than drown in the flow of all that it meant to be feral: powerful, harsh and unforgiving.

When he next opened his eyes, it was because something was pressing at the vulnerable valley of soft flesh underneath his jaw. His first belief was that it was a threat, but reason interceded before he could respond. A wet nose nestled in the short fur there, and a raspy tongue licked at his chin as if to draw him out of his fugue. Dimly, he became aware that he was standing over Sherlock: an opposite reflection of their earlier pose. Now it was Sherlock sheltered beneath the looming hulk of John's body, still curled where he had collapsed.

Gently, like the slide of ice across his mind, John sensed an apology. There were no words, but Sherlock managed to convey a strange chimera of relief and shame, sorrow and pride, as if he were pleased John was still present while simultaneously embarrassed that his own state had caused such anguish.

 _“Idiot,”_ John thought fondly, shearing away all his raw emotions as he attempted to ease Sherlock back from the precipitous edge on which he was balanced. The thoughts he was getting were clouded, torn between animal fear and vicious retribution. It gave him the impression that all of Sherlock's being was occupied in the effort to maintain his control, which left John to deal with the outside world.

Unfortunately, thanks to the link with Sherlock – now wide open and brimming with basic, animal demands – it was challenging to stay focussed. He craved safety with every fibre of his being, and here, in strange territory, with the peppermint oil still hurting his throat and surrounded by chaos, he felt far from secure. Sherlock was hurt, and that knowledge filled John's mind, chattering and useless. His heart raced as his concentration wavered, too confused and disorganised to plot a way forward.

A movement made him snap his head around, and he growled at Donovan, seeing nothing but the haze of dominance until she dropped to the ground, lying on her belly. Hot shame washed through him, but he did not stand down. He didn't want her anywhere near them. She was an aggressor, someone from whom Sherlock had to be protected, and he couldn't bring himself to see her as anything else. 

'Easy,' Greg murmured, crouching at Sally's side, his head cocked as he communicated something to her. Immediately, she backed away, making sure she was well out of range before she straightened up and left John's line of sight. 

The DI turned his attention to the two of them, an amused gleam in his eye as he took in John's stance. It faded quick enough when he saw Sherlock's wounds, however, and John watched that mind, not stupid by any means, gather speed.

'Right, John. Bark once if you understand me?' He nodded, pleased, when John did as he was asked. 'Good. Good. Now, I can't smell much thanks to the stink bomb – trust the bastard to have one spare – but I can guess what happened. Between being hurt and the ongoing peril, Sherlock's probably having to fight to keep any kind of logical thought in his head. It'd be best if he was human, but – ' He waved a hand dismissively. '– expecting you to change here is stupid. You need to get somewhere safe, and soon. Sherlock doesn't look too bad, physically at least, but the sooner he's back to his old self, the better. If the transformation doesn't seal up those scrapes, then you can treat them.'

'We could take them to the pens at the Yard.' Donovan stepped forward, her feet bare and her body wrapped in a long, pale coat. She tightened the sash determinedly around her waist, frowning as Lestrade shook his head.

'No good. What's a base for us is foreign to them. I know Sherlock. He'll have spent time programming John to equate Baker Street with sanctuary.' He gave a thin smile, scratching his chin. 'They need to go home. Take charge of this lot, will you?' He flicked his fingers at the suspect being marched through the warehouse. 'Forensics'll be here soon. We need to comb those tunnels for bullets and get to the bottom of this, but I need to make sure these two are all right first.' When Donovan looked dubious, he scowled at her. 'It's procedure, Sally; you know that as well as I do.'

'They're not on the Force; it doesn't apply!' she pointed out, throwing her hands in the air when Greg gave her a disbelieving stare. 'Fine.' John sensed her eyes on him and glanced over his shoulder, seeing a wistful gleam to her gaze before it faded, replaced with professional efficiency. 'God knows they won't be any good to us for a while anyway.' She thrust her hand in her pocket and threw Greg some keys. 'Here, you'll need these. Hope they'll both fit.'

'We'll manage something.' The DI frowned at Sherlock, then peered towards the door. 'It's probably going to be easiest if I get the car and bring it here. There's a narrow access road. It might take five minutes or so, but I'll try and be quick. John, can you help Sherlock get to the front of the building?'

He cast his eye over the labyrinth of broken metal that now surrounded them, picking out the serpentine pathways of clear space. It would be quicker to climb over, but he doubted Sherlock was able. As it was, he barely seemed fit to stand. Still, they'd give it their best shot. If nothing else, being away from the reeking air would probably help settle their nerves.

With a single bark of confirmation, John watched Greg go, his pace brisk as he warned his men to leave them in peace. As soon as the DI disappeared, he turned his attention to the wolf beneath him, trying to think around the oppressive weight of raw emotion in his head. Simple, result-oriented concepts obscured the focus required to form a strategy, and he huffed in irritation. He wanted to get Sherlock home to Baker Street, but he couldn't work out how to do so. Every line of possibility shattered apart, obliterated by the waves coming along the telepathic link: not wild, exactly, but linear and reactionary. 

A second later, something slammed in his head, like a vault door swinging closed. His awareness shrank, hemmed in and pinched, as if someone had applied blinkers directly to his brain. It was precisely how it felt when Sherlock vanished from his mind, and a growl scratched his throat as he endeavoured to understand.

The interference of Sherlock's simplistic cognisance was gone, not just faint, but imperceptible. John could rationalise without distraction, able – if not willing – to focus on his surroundings, rather than concentrating solely on the one man that mattered. That meant he saw the difference in Sherlock's face. Silver eyes were closed in concentration, as if he had been forced to tighten the reins of his self-control. His body, still shaking, trembled harder, and his nostrils flared as his breaths came in rapid bursts.

A dark suspicion bloomed in John's mind. He had assumed that the break in their connection had been a symptom of something else: unconsciousness, severe injury or even death. One glance at Sherlock and that seemed unlikely. He looked like a man trying to dam the waters of a raging torrent, shaking with the strain, and John suspected he knew the reason.

Sherlock was blocking him, freeing up John's mind from the stream of his consciousness. There was nothing accidental about it, and he fought hard against his knee-jerk rejection. Obviously the open link helped Sherlock, making him more rational, but now he'd sealed it off again in the name of preserving John's clarity. 

If it weren't for the fact that he needed a clear head to get them out of here, he would have railed against Sherlock's actions. Instead, he set aside his objections for later, determined to have his say as he stepped away, giving Sherlock the room to find his feet.

Their progress was clumsy, Sherlock's lithe grace crippled by the limp that desynchronised his gait. He leaned heavily against John's side, his being closed off and solitary as John carefully guided him towards the warehouse door. More than once they had to stop so that Sherlock could muster the energy to continue. John wasn't sure if he was struggling with the pain from the wounds – worse than they looked, perhaps? – or the oil-slick of his mired mind, but it was disturbing to see him so wrecked.

By the time fresh air washed up John's nose, easing away the burn of the stink bomb, they were both shaking from tense exhaustion. Sherlock sank to his haunches on the threshold, his ears drooping and his tail curled tight against his body. He looked disconsolate, and John settled at his side, a rough grunt leaving his chest as Sherlock cowered into him, heartbreakingly small as he huddled close.

Within minutes, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness, bathing them in their glow before they swung away. Lestrade's car pulled up, and the DI climbed out, opening the back door and gesturing them forward. 'It'll be a tight squeeze, but it's not far. Try not to bleed on the upholstery.' That last part was directed at Sherlock, and John's relief was equal to Greg's when he got a glare in response, weak, but a dozen times better than the vacancy that had dominated Sherlock's gaze.

John got in first, squeezing himself into a corner and lying down, taking up two-thirds of the back seat. He didn't even twitch when Sherlock hopped up next to him and promptly draped his upper-body over John's shoulders, his sigh of relief stirring the fur on John's head. 

'Watch your tail,' Greg warned as he shut the door before climbing in and starting the engine. His eyes crinkled with amusement when he glanced in the rear-view mirror, probably unable to see anything but a bizarre, distorted yin-yang of black and sandy silver. 'Come on, then. Let's get you home.'

The engine purred beneath them, sending meek vibrations into John's chest. It was oddly soothing, but not nearly as effective as the solid weight of Sherlock pressed against him. The seal at Sherlock's end of their telepathic bond, the one that kept John from him, had loosened. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was letting him in with deliberate care, or if it was simply easier to cut him off than open up to him. Whatever the reason, John listened to the song of Sherlock's mind, focussing on the thin trickle of emotion that he could detect.

He didn't think Sherlock was putting his feelings on display for John's perusal, and that made him nervous. When they were both at their best, he couldn't detect anything but a mental shadow without Sherlock's active cooperation. Now, it was more messy, as if he were automatically broadcasting whether he wanted to or not. 

However, if he realised what he was doing, Sherlock didn't try and stop it. Perhaps he lacked the energy, or maybe he trusted John enough to cope with the strain. Whatever the reason, John was grateful. He would take this simplistic chaos over the silence he'd had to endure. It felt unnatural not to have Sherlock right there, and this way, John could detect the steady advance of his logic.

He could sense Sherlock exploring and discarding fears that, as a human, were irrational. His distress over being trapped in the car, for instance, and the unnatural sensation of movement. Gradually, the simple melody of Sherlock's consciousness became more complex, a duet at first, and then a swelling symphony, beautifully intricate – if a little discordant – as they sped through the city towards home.

Baker Street's windows glowed with warm, welcoming light, and John lifted his head, taking in the sight. It was like a balm to his soul, leaving him breathless with relief. The ache to get through the door and pace worn floorboards took root in his joints, and he fidgeted, eager to move.

A reflection of his reaction gleamed in Sherlock's eyes, the tremulous hum of the body above him calming to a whisper as the vehicle pulled up. Greg got out and opened the door for them, grumbling in protest when John almost knocked him over in his haste. Sherlock followed, sedate and stiff, his limp more pronounced after being stuck in close quarters. 

John paced between his friend and the threshold, growling at the closed panel that barred his way, cursing his ineptitude. Even if he had opposable thumbs with which to open it, he didn't have any damn keys!

'Good thing I've got a spare,' Greg murmured, leaning over them to slip it in the lock. 'I think it's best if we try not to wake Mrs Hudson. There's no need to worry her.' 

John silently agreed, but his motivations were less for Mrs Hudson's well-being and more for that of him and Sherlock. She would fuss and flutter around, invading their space, and while he normally enjoyed her company, the idea of anyone else in their flat rubbed him up the wrong way.

As it was, even Greg being here made his hackles bristle. It must have been obvious, because Lestrade muttered an apology as he crept up the stairs, every movement careful, as if he believed one mis-step would end badly for everyone. 'Believe me, I know how you feel. You don't want anyone in your territory who's not your pack. It's aggravating at the best of times, and now...' He trailed off, gesturing to Sherlock, then John, encapsulating the madness of the entire night with one wave of his hand. 'I'll just let you in, all right? I won't set foot inside.'

True to his word, Greg kept his body at arm's length from 221B, and as soon as the door opened, he stood back, well away from the frontier. John's body buzzed with the desire to bound through and revel in their home, but he held himself firm, waiting until Sherlock was safely inside. The sight of him in that familiar environment calmed John, easing the deepest bite of his discomfort so he could cast the DI a look of thanks.

'Hey, wait a second.'

He paused in the act of going through the door, glancing back at Lestrade. He looked tired, but the shadows under his eyes didn't rob his gaze of its intensity as he crouched down on the top step, putting himself slightly below John's level as he began to speak.

'Look, when Sherlock's more himself, he'll probably try and feed you some line about this – what happened to him tonight – being a weakness of his.' Greg shook his head in disbelief. 'He'll be talking bullshit. It happens to all of us, Faolchu and Mactiri alike. Sometimes a certain type of danger is too much, we're not adequately prepared, and the balance of instinct and intelligence is lost. It's a defence mechanism, something that helps us utilise our wolf abilities to the utmost when they're really needed.'

John paused, turning Lestrade's words over in his mind. Possibly, the Mactire didn't recognise it as such, but to him, it sounded just like what had happened to him in Afghanistan. In such an exceptionally dangerous and confusing situation, he had been more wolf than man, cruel and deadly. Was that what Sherlock had fought so hard to master tonight?

Greg ran his hand through his hair. 'Mactiri are taught how to cope – how to ride it out without losing it completely. Sherlock, on the other hand, probably had to work it out on his own, and he's done a better job of holding it together than most Mactiri I know. That's a real achievement, though I bet he won't see it that way.'

He bit his lip before dragging in a steadying breath. 'Don't let him be a prat about it. Stay in the flat for a while, and take care of each other. If you need food, ask Mrs Hudson to get it, or send me a text. You're not going to want to see anyone else for two days, maybe three.' He splayed his hand palm-down, his fingers curled in emphasis. 'It's important, or I wouldn't bother you with it. Sherlock needs to know he's safe, not just logically, but instinctively. So do you, to some extent. If you leave home before you're ready, or he wanders off to Bart’s, he'll be an unpredictable mess for weeks. That'll only make things worse. Got it?'

John cocked his head, wishing he could change form and grill Greg for answers, but he was still shaky and unsure, too firmly rooted in his wolf form for the easy ride of a return transformation. Between the tantalising clues Lestrade lay out for his consideration and the facets he had managed to deduce for himself, he was getting intriguing pieces of a greater whole. More than anything, he wanted to understand what had happened so he could help Sherlock recover his equilibrium. However, at least Greg's words meant he wasn't completely in the dark. 

His single bark was all the reply he could provide, but it seemed to be enough as the DI got to his feet. 'I know you probably want to be on two legs again, but give yourself a few minutes before you try. If you force it, it'll backfire.' With a firm nod, Greg turned away, creeping back down the stairs and out of the front door as John trotted into the flat and sought out Sherlock.

He lay on his side in front of the dead, cold grate, his chest swelling with every breath and his eyes shut. Briefly, John thought he'd passed out, and panic fluttered through him as he wondered if Sherlock had been concealing the extent of his injuries. However, the moment he advanced, Sherlock lifted his head from his paws to give John a bleary stare. 

_“How do you feel?”_ John asked, strafing tenderly against Sherlock's mind and hoping he would get a reply. The link was open, and the roaring tide of Sherlock's consciousness had faded from John's awareness, filtered once more as his restraint returned. There was a flash of something that John couldn't pick apart, too many emotions mixing together in a muddy mess, before a few words drifted through.

_“Tired. Hurt. Safe.”_

It was disjointed, but at least it was some kind of communication. John padded over, nuzzling at Sherlock's brow and rasping his tongue through short, dense fur before turning his attention to the wounds. 

He was desperate to clean them, but there was little he could do in his current shape. Most wild animals licked cuts, but John's medical background made him shudder at the idea. Worse, the ability to change hovering tantalisingly beyond his reach, rendering him unable to help. In this case, patience was a virtue, one that John struggled to grasp.

Clenching his teeth, he became aware of Sherlock watching him, his nose wrinkling as he dragged in John's scent, checking for discrepancies. The weight of Sherlock's good paw over his shoulders, surprisingly strong, bore him to the ground, and he grumbled in token protest as Sherlock nudged at John's leg.

Warmth cushioned the sudden crest of pain, and disapproval radiated from his flatmate. The cut was a small one, probably collected in his mad dash through the tunnels, or perhaps gifted by a bit of shrapnel in the warehouse. Honestly, he hadn't noticed it happen. Shallow and small, it was inconsequential, but Sherlock whined, curling closer as if the sight caused him grief.

 _“You're in a worse state,”_ John pointed out, holding back his reprimands about carelessness and poor self-preservation. That could wait until Sherlock was human again, firm of mind and strong voiced. Yelling at him now seemed cruel; Sherlock was fragile, anyone could see that. He needed reassurance, not the rasp of John's frightened, protective anger.

They lay together in silence, listening to the sounds of Baker Street. The building sighed and the traffic buzzed outside. Haunting fragrances of chemicals and take-aways past embellished the cool air. It was not uncomfortable, but John suspected it would be freezing once they shed their fur.

Fifteen minutes later, the fizzing wash of fight-or-flight that echoed through his veins finally receded. It brought his body back into focus, enabling him to sense not just his wolf anatomy, but the potential to be human like a resonance in his bones.

Cautiously, he eased away from Sherlock's side, giving himself some space before he allowed the change to wash over him. Euphoria soothed his aches and his stresses, but he didn't permit himself to drown in its tide. Sherlock needed his care, and John couldn't relish the physical release of his transformation when he had other, more pressing concerns demanding his attention.

Straightening up, he stretched, noticing that Sherlock had forced himself to pay attention, his gaze locked on the door in a typical guard-dog pose. No sign of weakness gave him away. To anyone without a direct line to Sherlock's brain, he would seem powerful and uncompromised, but John could detect the price of his effort. He let his voice drift through the flat, quiet and chiding. 'Lie down before you fall over. I'll be right back.'

Quickly, he ran up the stairs, pulling his tatty cotton pyjama bottoms over his bare hips before grabbing his quilt and pillows. He didn't bother with a t-shirt, ignoring the chill of their home as he returned to the living room, dumping the bedding on the couch. It took him a couple of minutes to find the first aid kit for cotton wool and antiseptic. He diluted the latter with water from the kettle, which had been boiled then cooled and was at least somewhat sterile. Finally, he grabbed some clean towels and settled at Sherlock's side, considering where to start.

 _“Shoulder.”_ Sherlock emphasised his instruction by turning to provide better access. He stayed stoic and silent as John set to work, easing the blood away from dark fur with gentle swipes until he could see the damage beneath. The scrape was about as long as his middle finger, broad and shallow, bleeding again thanks to John's ministrations, but at least he could assess its severity. 

Working on people in wolf form was not something he had done before. In the army, he assumed the Mactire had some kind of training that allowed them to change back despite the adrenaline and shock of warfare. It meant that he got to see the worst traumas, the ones that weren't wiped away by transformation. Core body punctures and limb damage were the most common. For most Mactiri not in need of emergency surgery, the treatment was simple: a quick assessment and prophylactic antibiotics in case they'd caught any foreign bodies under their skin during their change. It looked like the same would be necessary for Sherlock.

'Show me your side.'

With a grunt, he rolled over so he was sprawled on the floor, his flank exposed. The cut there was longer and a bit deeper, but nothing too bad. It probably hurt like hell, sore and stinging, but despite John's doubts, it could still be classed as superficial. 

It took almost half an hour of patient care to clean Sherlock's fur completely. He used the towels to blot up the pinkish water as it fell, making absent, soothing noises as he did so, constantly alert to his patient's well-being.

A shiver juddered along Sherlock's spine, and John petted his ears in an effort to calm him, clearing away dirty cotton wool before getting to his feet. 'I'll get the fire lit,' he promised, thinking quickly. Greg had said that inspiring contentment and security was the highest priority. For John, that meant a soft, warm bed and four strong walls around him. Presumably, Sherlock was much the same, but moving him to the bedroom seemed less than ideal.

He bustled around, grabbing Sherlock's eiderdown and adding it to his in a makeshift nest on the living room floor before hunting down some matches. Hunkering down by the hearth, he spent ten frustrating minutes trying to get the kindling to light until, at last, flames danced merrily below the darkness of the chimney. A flickering glow bathed the flat, and John rose, his hands on his hips as he wondered what else Sherlock might need.

Grey eyes stared at him as if he had spoken the question out loud, and Sherlock's reply seeped into John's mind. _“You.”_

The emotions that clung to the word were no longer a cloud of confusion, but clear threads of amusement, fondness and a hint of something endearingly timid. It was all the encouragement John needed to put the fire-guard in front of the hearth, restraining any stray sparks before he settled on the padding the quilts could offer. A mound of pillows against the sofa supported his back, and he lay, half-reclined, making no complaints when Sherlock rested his head on his bare chest.

Questions darted around John's mind, but every time he considered giving one voice, he remembered Sherlock's weariness and continuing disquiet. He still wasn't relaxed, and John stroked his ears and the crown of his head, down Sherlock's neck and shoulders in the hopes of dispelling some of the knots that bunched beneath his dense fur.

The steady, meditative action lulled them both as minutes turned into hours. John suspected his back would hate him in the morning, but he was too weary to move except when it became necessary to throw more wood on the fire. He dozed at some point, losing himself to half-dreams as the night crept on.

It wasn't until the darkest hour before dawn that Sherlock moved, limping towards the kitchen and sitting on his haunches, his head bowed in concentration. 

Disturbed from his shallow slumber, John sat upright, watching him. He was used to seeing Sherlock's transformations, swift and well-balanced. He knew, almost down to the second, how long Sherlock took to pass from one shape to the other, and as three minutes became five, fear cramped in his gut. Sherlock had told him it wasn't possible to get stuck, and only that memory stopped him from reaching out. He held himself still, dividing his focus between the door – the boundary of their territory – and Sherlock himself.

As soon as the heat cleared, John was on his feet, closing the distance in a few short strides until he could wrap his hands around Sherlock's bare, quivering shoulders. The wound there was a sealed, pink line of flesh, and the one running down the length of his side was the same: benign, new skin. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

Sterling eyes opened to regard him blearily, and Sherlock cuffed away a thin gleam of sweat from his upper lip, wobbling on his feet and grabbing John for support. 

'What's wrong?' John demanded, frowning as a list of symptoms and diagnoses ran through his head. 'And don't tell me you're fine. I'm not blind.'

Sherlock drew a deep, shuddering breath, filling his chest with air as if he'd not been able to get a good lungful for hours. His face was pale and his eyes glassy. 'A sort of shock,' he managed at last, speaking as if he could barely get the words out over the desperate need to breathe. 'Not medical.'

Emotional, John surmised, sparing Sherlock the discomfort of saying it out loud. Suddenly, Greg’s advice made all the more sense. Sherlock looked shattered, even more exhausted than when a case robbed him of sleep for days on end. It was as if he'd survived a massive ordeal. Perhaps he had. John kept remembering the musky smell of a rogue Faolchu, and Sherlock's obvious wildness being held at bay by the full focus of his huge mind. He had put his all into maintaining some semblance of his human self, and the cost was clearly almost more than he could bear.

'Come on,' John urged, man-handling Sherlock towards the fire, where ruddy embers still glowed. It was tempting to put him to bed – it would be more relaxing, probably – but Sherlock's room would be cold, and he looked like he needed the heat. Peeling back one of the quilts, John guided him down and tucked him in, trapping warm air next to him before stirring the ashes back to life.

Sherlock watched him, eyes half-lidded and his expression mesmerised by the leap of the flames, but the moment John moved, he reached out, encircling John's wrist in his grasp. Desperation lined his face, hideously vulnerable, and John shushed him softly. 'It's okay, I'm not going anywhere. I was going to lie down behind you so that you could make the most of the fire, that's all.'

Carefully, not letting go of Sherlock's hand, he did as he promised, fighting the impulse to press himself along the length of that lean, bare back. He needn't have bothered with restraint. Sherlock rolled to face him, the naked lines of his body cinched close to John's corresponding form as if he were trying to climb inside his skin. Slender arms wrapped around him, long fingers grasping at his shoulders as Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck.

Pursing his lips, John tried to hide his concern, pushing it down deep. He understood, vaguely, what had happened, but the reasons still eluded him. What had disturbed the balance of sentient intelligence and wolf instinct to such an extent? Why had Sherlock blocked him when it seemed that his connection to John could have helped?

With a small shake of his head, he flung his queries away, tightening his embrace as if he could somehow hold Sherlock together. Answers could wait until morning. For now, John thought with a sigh, they had both made it home safe and sound.

That was good enough for him.


	6. Chapter 6

Late morning sunlight lit the world beyond the windowpane. If John had looked, he would have seen an overcast sky interrupted by the silhouetted peaks of the buildings across the street, but his attention was occupied elsewhere.

Sherlock lay in his arms, soft and humid with sleep. It was the slumber of a man who'd pushed himself too far: deep and oblivious. The quilt tangled them together in a twist of limbs, and their bodies were sealed from chest to hips. Only John's pyjama trousers separated them, and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful or resent their presence: one last boundary.

With a stifled sigh, he stroked his thumb over the notch of Sherlock's vertebrae, noticing the texture of his skin where it pulled across the sharp ridge of the bone beneath. His arm had gone to sleep, but he didn't dare move it and shatter this interlude. His vigil had not been the most comfortable of his life, his sleep fitful and fractured by his concern for the man at his side. However, he was loathe to break the peace that surrounded them.

Besides, if he woke Sherlock, then there'd be no excuse to stay like this, cocooned and safe, his heart and stomach thrilling in helpless harmony. As soon as Sherlock opened his eyes, he would withdraw – mentally, as well as physically – and John would be left alone to navigate the trenches of an awkward conversation about what happened last night.

There was no doubt that Sherlock would not want to discuss it. He'd do everything in his power to avoid John's questions, from dismissal to aggression, and John was already bracing himself to fight for the truth. He couldn't ignore it, no matter how much Sherlock wanted to. Partly, he wished he could respect Sherlock's decision and allow him his secrets, but that wasn't the way this could work.

Sherlock hadn't let him hide from what he could become. He had given John the conviction to face his condition and find the numerous advantages it gave him. What kind of friend would he be if he didn't return the favour? Sherlock was there for John while he dealt with his transformation and learned about being Faolchu, but no one had ever been there for him. From the moment he was bitten to the day John walked into his life, Sherlock had been as good as alone.

Well, that was about to change. He didn't know how Sherlock assumed he would react, but whatever his fears, they were baseless. John wouldn't leave – couldn't, probably. Greg said that Sherlock had programmed John to think of the flat as a sanctuary, but that wasn't it at all. Baker Street, for all its unique charm, was merely four walls and a roof. It was the man who lived within, John's constant companion, who made it a refuge. He needed to be here, not just when he was threatened by the world, but on an everyday basis. He belonged with Sherlock; that much was certain. It may as well have been written in the marrow of his bones. He wasn't going anywhere.

Sherlock's breathing hitched, and John wiped his mind blank. He didn't think he'd been projecting the chaos of his thoughts, but his control wasn't at its best, and he narrowed his eyes as Sherlock's brow twisted in a frown and his nose wrinkled. At any other time, it would have been endearing, but right now John would give anything to lull Sherlock back to sleep – to delay the inevitable for a few more minutes.

However, luck wasn't on his side. He saw the balance tip from slumber to wakefulness, noticed the birth of tension in Sherlock's muscles and sensed its spread like a disease as memory and awareness returned.

'Hey,' he murmured, tightening his arms as Sherlock pulled back his hands, one from where it lay on John's hip and the other from where his fingertips pressed, warm and solid, over John's heart. The loss of active contact made John's stomach writhe. He should release Sherlock, he knew that, because what had been a mutual embrace had become him holding Sherlock captive, but a sixth sense warned him against letting go. If he gave Sherlock the chance to pull back an inch, he would withdraw a mile, and John didn't think he could face that.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the urge to voice useless platitudes. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate them, and they sure as hell wouldn't do John any good. Even asking if he was all right was pointless. The familiar sensation of their connection, like standing in a sunbeam, was present in John's mind. Yet even though nothing bled through, John could tell something was wrong. Sherlock's body told that story, from the stiffness of his shoulders to the way his head remained ducked, his curls tickling John's chin and his face turned away.

Shame and embarrassment, or resentment? John wasn't sure, and he was afraid to ask in case it was the latter. He'd spent a long, dark night worrying his way through the possibilities of why Sherlock had blocked him off, not once, but twice. He'd done it on purpose, there was no question about that, but the more John thought about the motivation, the more his doubts grew.

He considered Sherlock his friend, his brother-in-arms, _everything_. His life had rewritten itself to incorporate him gladly into every facet, and he'd hoped it was a mutual change. He'd assumed that Sherlock felt the same thing, that he was subtly adjusting his behaviour to accommodate John because he wanted him there.

What if that wasn't it at all? What if Sherlock was acting out of some fucked up sense of obligation, keeping his flatmate happy for the convenience of cohabitation and the Work? Twenty-four hours ago, John wouldn't have given the idea any credit, but when it came to the crunch, Sherlock hadn't relied on him and seen their link as an asset. He'd cut it off and plunged John into silence, as if their bond was holding him back.

There had been too many quiet hours in which to consider Sherlock's reasons. Now, John was stuck with the desperate need to be told he was wrong and the gut-deep despair that he was probably right. This was Sherlock after all: not a man known for his sentimentality. What if John had been projecting his own hopes? Seeing affection where there was only tolerance?

He couldn't ask. John was already hideously exposed, enjoying the way Sherlock lay heavy in his arms but aching with the dawning realisation that it was something he could never have – not properly. To drag his fears out into the light, to hear confirmation? Perhaps he wasn't strong enough for this. Maybe Sherlock had the right idea, and they should pretend nothing had happened.

A sharp stab of self-loathing at his own cowardice shot through John's chest. He meant to keep it to himself, dark and hidden, but a second later Sherlock flinched, wrenching away as if he couldn't bear to touch him any longer. A miserable sound rasped in John's throat, his hand reaching out blindly before falling back.

'Sherlock?' John swallowed, hating the plaintive whine that underscored his voice. He chewed his lip, watching Sherlock sit up and draw his knees to his chest. The covers clung lovingly to his thighs and curled around his waist, but the tranquillity that filled the room had fled, leaving them hunched and miserable. John's jaw moved around useless phrases before he swallowed them back, keeping his body reclined and non-threatening as he croaked, 'Talk to me?'

He watched the play of sunlight over Sherlock's profile, an opalescent illumination that softened the hard shadows under his cheekbones, but did nothing to brighten the weary, flat steel of his gaze. Full lips pursed, and Sherlock's fingers curled into a futile fist before he began to speak.

'I – I can teach you how to block off the connection.' He swallowed, oblivious to the way John flinched where he lay. 'Your mind will be your own again.'

John was lost, breathless and disoriented as a few simple words seemed to bring his fears to fulfilment. Sherlock didn't want what they shared; he thought it should be destroyed – the polar opposite of John's fervent desire for his friend's presence.

Did he require their telepathic affinity? Perhaps not, but that didn't mean he wanted to exist without it. Maybe he was selfish; he should respect Sherlock's wishes and help him wipe out whatever it was that had grown between them, but desperate denial clawed at the pit of John's stomach.

'No!'

Sherlock looked up at his vehement protest, his brow skewed in confusion, but at least that meant he met John's eyes. It gave him time to take in his expression, and what John found was less definitive than Sherlock's statement would have him believe. Where he expected stubborn determination and chilly arrogance, there was the cringing, downcast grimace of someone doing what they thought was best despite their own personal preference. Sherlock didn't look as convinced of his idea as his tone suggested, and urgent syllables welled in John's throat, spilling from his lips in a rush.

'I don't want to break it. I don't – I – I've never been as afraid as when I couldn't find you in my head, not even when I was shot. You were gone, and I was on my own.' His voice strained, and he bit his lip hard, trying to ignore the well of black, bubbling horror that came to life in his chest. It reminded him too much of those first days in London, cast out of the army and an alien among the city's populace. He had been so isolated, and the idea of returning to that...

'I don't want to learn how to block what we have,' he managed, sitting up and mirroring Sherlock's position, trying to emphasise his seriousness with the intensity of his stare. 'I want to know why you had to shut it down in the first place.'

A shiver raced over Sherlock, shaking his shoulders and dimpling his skin. John looked around for something to offer warmth. They were using one quilt as a mattress, and the other was draped over their legs, their positions too awkward for it to cover them both. The fire had gone out long ago, and Baker Street's air was a cool mantle across John's back.

'Lie down,' he urged, trying to ignore the way Sherlock's frame stiffened, as if the vulnerability of curling up with John at his side was intolerable. 'Please, Sherlock. You're freezing.'

When there were no obvious signs of capitulation, he sighed, beating his pillow into shape with a fist before reclining. He had grown used to thinking like a wolf and a human, and body language was a big part of that. He couldn't force Sherlock to huddle under the blankets, but he could at least show he was no threat.

Ignoring the keen slice of rejection, John lay on his side facing Sherlock, keeping his distance. Any further away and he'd have no bedding left, but Sherlock was defensive and agitated. He needed space as much as he needed soothing, and John was determined to take it one step at a time.

He ached with uncertainty, made worse by Sherlock's continuing reticence, but he forced his grief down. If it was still relevant when he had all the answers, he'd set it free, but right now he suspected there were aspects of Sherlock's behaviour he was failing to understand. It gave him hope, even as he reached for his straining patience and allowed his friend time to respond.

Finally, after several minutes passed, Sherlock lay down as if he were made of spun glass, delicate and fragile. He dragged the quilt up to his chin, using the fluffy depths as an obvious shield. His knees pulled up, bony and defensive in the meagre space between their bodies, but at least he was facing John as an equal, any difference in stature removed by their respective positions. If anything, Sherlock had put himself lower down their makeshift bed, submissive in a way John hated to see.

Like a man awaiting judgement.

More than once, Sherlock took a breath as if he were about to speak, but nothing came of it, and John was left wondering how to proceed. He wanted to project comfort and understanding, but he didn't dare bring the link to Sherlock's attention in case he snapped it in response. Instead, John had to wait, falling back on keeping his posture as open and inviting as possible, relaxed in contrast to Sherlock's twisted tension.

'It was the smell.'

John blinked at the apparent non sequitur, but he knew better than to question it. Tipping his head attentively, he tried to glean a hint from Sherlock's closed off features until that deep voice continued. 'Brackish water. Filth. Dust and grit from poorly homogenised concrete and crumbling Victorian brickwork. Sweat. Stress...'

Sherlock's head jerked once in a sharp, negative motion, his lips pursed so tight they were bleached white before he parted them to continue. 'Scent is deeply tied to memory. It's the most evocative sense a human possesses and one of the strongest in the Faolchú arsenal. It was already challenging, walking into those tunnels; then the idiot fired his gun.'

'You were hurt,' John murmured, trying to understand this convoluted monologue.

'Superficial.' A shrug shifted the snowy topography of the eiderdown. 'The pain had little to do with it; it was the odour – acrid with a hint of oil.' Sherlock shut his eyes, his face creased in distress as another shudder ran through him. 'The input took me straight back to the day I was bitten, and I lost control.'

John stared, his mind scrambling as he remembered what Sherlock had told him about how he came to be Faolchu. He had kept the details generalised, probably because, much like John's initial transformation, the specifics were less than clear, but scent – that was powerful. John could remember it well: sand and spice, the strange, flat fragrance of military laundry detergent mixing with the non-smell of adrenaline. Dry, stale gunpowder, out too long in the elements but still functional. The iron tang of blood filling his mouth and nose. If he stumbled across that combination again...

'A trigger.' He ran his tongue over his teeth, fighting the urge to reach out and offer the reassurance he longed to provide. 'The smell of the explosive chemicals involved was the last part of it, but –' He hesitated, unwilling to probe too deep for fear of making Sherlock withdraw further. He was already vulnerable in his defensiveness, not acerbic and abrasive as John was accustomed. 'When you were describing it to me, you said none of your abductors got a shot off when you –'

'Annihilated them?'

'Gave them what they deserved.' John tucked a knuckle under Sherlock's jaw and, for this, made him meet his eyes. 'For God's sake, you pretty much said it yourself. This, how you're feeling now, it doesn't have anything to do with the men who took you, does it?'

A flicker of acknowledgement gleamed in Sherlock's gaze, and weak triumph thrilled along John's spine as he noticed the fractional slackening of the muscles in Sherlock's neck. 'The humans were making their own bullets,' A familiar sneer twitched Sherlock's lips, not attractive, but a welcome sight all the same. 'Silver ones. They all stank of gun oil and explosive powder.'

He eased himself away from John's grip, the ridicule fading from his expression as he continued. 'I tried to hold onto myself – to think logically last night, but –'

'But he fired again.'

Sherlock nodded, his curls ruffling against the flattened pillow as his grip spasmed around the edge of the covers. 'I could detect it happening, and I loathed it. I couldn't make sense of the flow of events; trying to think strategically, to predict what he would do or what might happen next... It was impossible. I could only act and react, but I knew my own incapability and it was –'

Nimble fingers slipped up to Sherlock's temples, white-knuckled as he shook his head, his eyes clamped shut and his back bowed. It was the last assault on John's restraint, and he slid across the distance, his hands resting over Sherlock's as if he could draw away the torment of the memory. Of course, that would be the most disturbing aspect of the entire situation for Sherlock. Not the bleeding wounds or the ongoing threat, but the loss of his logic and the blurring of his intelligence.

Except that John had seen him, not just the snarling animal on the surface, but the man within, throwing his entire being into maintaining a fraction of rationality amidst the tempest of his instincts. Yes, perhaps Sherlock's grip had weakened, but it had not failed. John could appreciate Greg's admiration of that. He recalled the sensation of being a passenger in his body back in Afghanistan and the overwhelming knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop himself. That was where Sherlock had been last night: the same frame of mind.

Yet he had not killed the prey he captured. He had not run wild and vicious. He protected John from danger, shoving him from a bullet's path. In all that chaos, with the telepathic bond dead and cold between them, John had not been forgotten.

'You were far from incapable,' he whispered, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's and discerning the furrows that lined that skin. 'For God's sake, you must have been terrified, but you clung on. Your gut reaction was to allow the wolf to fight for your survival. You let that strength come to the fore, but you didn't abandon command.' He tightened his grip, wishing he could push his own certainties into Sherlock's head. 'I felt you. I _saw_ you. A second's effort and the suspect would have been dead, but you knew that wasn't how it could go.'

'There was no real threat,' Sherlock protested, his voice hoarse. 'No risk. It was needless!'

'He had a gun! He shot you!' John clenched his teeth, modulating his volume as his mind raced. 'Your discipline slipped, and you hate that. I understand, I do, but that doesn't explain why you cut me off. One minute I could hear you, the next –' He shook his head, sliding his palm down the nape of Sherlock's neck before pulling back to get a look at his face, watching him focus over John's shoulder, dim and unblinking. 'When you let me in again, you were better: more yourself, or at least more benign.'

'But you weren't.'

Sherlock met John's eyes with the full, analytical pressure of his own, as if daring him to deny it. He dropped his hands from his head, curling them against his chest as if he did not think he had permission to return John's embrace. All the soft, easy edges of their coexistence had hardened, becoming glassy and sharp to slice at them both.

'What do you mean?'

Sherlock wet his lips and bowed his head. When he spoke his voice was cold and dutiful. 'I cut you off because the trauma of your infection is a recent and volatile memory. I've spent weeks assisting you to become comfortable with your circumstances, assuring you that the wildness you experienced the first time you changed was a result of an unfortunate collusion of events, rather than the norm.' A muscle in his cheek ticked. 'Then, we ended up tracking a dangerous criminal in wolf form, and I proved myself wrong.'

John's protest that it was bad timing, something neither of them could foresee, was dismissed with a shake of Sherlock's head. 'That's not the point. You have only just found your confidence in your abilities and your mastery of your shape. If I had left the link open, you would have been dragged down to my level.' He breathed out a shallow sigh: a strained, painful sound. 'Would you have been able to shrug it off? Are you sure you wouldn't have gone straight back to where you were when you moved into Baker Street, rejecting everything you can be? I couldn't let that happen. I knew you'd never look at me the same once you realised what had happened, but at least I could try and stop you from hating yourself all over again. '

John's stomach went into free-fall as his heart cracked like ice. His denial was instant and fierce. 'What are you talking about? For God's sake, Sherlock, you honestly expect I'd think any less of you because you fell victim to your own nature? What the hell do you take me for?' Scrubbing a hand over his face, he continued, his voice gruff. 'You were protecting me.' He sighed. 'From you. You were blocking off the one thing that was helping you hold it together to stop me from regressing to how I was in Afghanistan. Except it didn't happen, did it? Once you let me back in, I didn't fall apart, did I?'

'Nor could you think!' Sherlock reached out, a scowl darkening his face. 'I watched you failing to plan a basic route out of the warehouse, losing your coherence because of _my_ lack of control. I should never have let you in.'

'You should never have shut me out!'

John's shout echoed around the living room, brutal and abrupt. A snarl was building in his throat and a tightness cramped his chest, but he ignored it as his mind scrambled to see a clear way forward. All this, all of Sherlock's doubts, seemed to centre on the certainty that John would be horrified by what had happened. Repulsed, even. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Even if Sherlock had been beyond all reason, lost to his Faolchu strength, that would never have been the result. Now, Sherlock was lying there, talking about breaking their connection as if he were speaking of shattering the chain that held John captive, rather than the cord that kept him going.

Looping his fingers around Sherlock's wrists, he squeezed, not hard enough to bruise, but determined. He wanted to raise his voice, to shout his arguments until Sherlock got the message, but that would never work. Already they were both defensive, hurt by their own uncertainties, and he modulated his tone as he continued. 'You offered to teach me how to block it, but why the hell would I want to?'

'Why would you have any wish to maintain it?' Sherlock challenged. 'Even now, knowing it was unavoidable, you hate what became of you the day you first changed. Why would you be any happier witnessing me in that same state, allowing me to pollute your mind?' He shook his head, pulling back until he was at arm's length once more, kept in place only by John's continuing hold. 'Why you haven't already run a mile is beyond me.'

'You're an idiot if you think I'm going anywhere,' John retorted, shuffling lower so he could meet that down-turned gaze. 'I was there, Sherlock. I don't know what you remember, but you weren't as lost as you seem to think. Dangerous, yeah, and a bit unpredictable, but you beat it, don't you see? You won, and even if you hadn't, the last thing I'd want is to ditch this – you.' He drew in a deep breath, clearing his throat before he added, 'I never knew this was something I wanted, but now the idea of destroying what we have... I can't. I just can't.'

He looked away, embarrassed by the admission, but Sherlock had to know he'd got it all wrong. He wasn't some kind of monster to be reviled and rejected. He hadn't lost John's respect by suffering his bestial nature taking such obvious supremacy. That was part of who Sherlock was, as much as his intelligence and his deductions, his rudeness and his callous disregard for other people's feelings. Sherlock acted as if he had committed a reprehensible offence, but John didn't see it that way. Sherlock had accepted John, in all his stubborn refusals and clumsy joy, but now he believed John should turn his back just because – sometimes – Sherlock fell afoul of the darker side of being Faolchu.

'It would only be the telepathy that we lost,' Sherlock said, flat and quiet. 'You'd still have your home here with me; we'd still go on cases together –'

'It wouldn't be the same, and you know it.' John rubbed his thumb over the ulnar process at Sherlock's wrist. 'The telepathy is part of who we are, part of being Faolchu. Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't do what you're suggesting. What's it going to take to get that into your thick head? I won't help you break this.'

He shut his eyes, wishing he could put into words how essential their link was to him: not an embellishment, but a foundation stone on which he'd come to rely. To ignore it would compromise everything he had learned about himself since meeting Sherlock, and for what? Protection from being dragged down into an instinctual state? Forget that. He'd rather learn how to repeat Sherlock's feat and maintain a rein on his most deadly impulses while riding out the wave of wildness. He'd prefer to weather the storms with Sherlock at his side and in his head than bear tranquil skies without him.

His breath caught as the covers rustled. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Sherlock was leaving, fleeing their nest and John's presence. Yet cool fingers banished his fear, tracing the tattered web of his scar before moving up the column of John's throat. Heat radiated from Sherlock's body, a beguiling humidity that grew more dense as he closed the distance between them, his bare knees nudging John's clothed ones as he slotted against him without apology.

John welcomed him, his heart pattering out a rhythm of relief. To an outsider, they must look like lovers, mostly nude in their cotton cocoon, and John's stomach trembled with longing as he opened his eyes and examined the man before him. Gone was the hard determination and painful resolve. What took its place was tender disbelief, as if John was one mystery the great Sherlock Holmes could never solve. Yet there was also gratitude in those eyes, driving home the certainty that, for all his protests, Sherlock had not wanted to block John permanently.

'I'm trying to do what's best for you.'

'That's not it,' John murmured, letting out a sigh. 'God, that's so far from what I want it's unbelievable.' He shifted his hand, ignoring the shake in his fingers as he placed them against Sherlock's cheek, trying to breathe around the emotion in his chest. The words didn't come easy, but he pushed them out anyway. 'You're my friend, my – my pack. Don't ask me to turn my back on you or throw that away, because I won't. Not even if you tell me to.'

Sterling eyes sharpened, creases fanning at their corners as Sherlock studied him. John couldn't read the emotions on his face – couldn't understand more than the surprised glimmer of intrigue and the perplexed draw of Sherlock's brow. There was nothing from the link to clue him in, and his pulse throbbed hard in his chest, driven higher by the shudder of frightened hope. Had he said too much? Had he managed to expose all the desire he worked to keep hidden?

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he froze as Sherlock leaned in, his cheek brushing against John's in an echo of the same nuzzle they often shared as wolves. Yet then, it was a gesture of acknowledgement and affection. This seemed charged, tremulous with a different kind of tension, and John gasped at the sensation of smooth skin and the rasp of their stubble, coarse and sandy.

'Friends?' Sherlock murmured, the quake in his voice blatant and unmasked. 'Is that all?'

Excitement stirred in John's stomach as Sherlock's lips brushed across his skin, his question whispered into his flesh. He tried to answer, but coherence was lost in the froth of a croaked moan. His head spun, knocked for six by the abrupt switch: distance for proximity, indifference for interest. On the surface, it seemed like one of Sherlock's manipulative tricks, but John knew different. Even if it wasn't for the mental connection, abruptly thrumming with the genuine wealth of Sherlock's sentiment, he would pick up the change in his scent, where anxiety cast a briny patina over the deeper spice of Sherlock's fragrance, musky and intense.

John's mouth parched, desert dry, as the perfume coiled in his lungs like opium smoke. His hands rose to Sherlock's bare chest of their own accord, fingers splayed and his palms pressed forward, but he didn't move to push him away. He was too intent on the nervous beat of Sherlock's heart and the way every breath swelled the curve of his ribs.

He could sense Sherlock watching him, and John swallowed, hope battling with the constant shadow of disbelief. It was tempting to prevaricate, to make Sherlock be the one who put all his cards on the table while John kept his thoughts close, but there was no guarantee that would work. He could sense Sherlock's uncertainty blooming with every passing second, the unexpected, wanton ember of flirtation waning as John failed to reply. If he didn't say something now, Sherlock would pull back, and he wasn't sure this opportunity would ever be repeated.

'Do you want more?' John whispered, brushing the tip of his nose against Sherlock's as a warm breath fluttered across his skin. God they were close, achingly so. His whole body pulsed with awareness. The bright burn of Sherlock's mind furled around him, yet it was not a threat. He was in no danger of being overwhelmed. It was like standing in a steamy bathroom, surrounded by balmy vapours and desperate to sink into the temperate, welcoming pool that awaited him.

Sherlock's lips twitched in a smile, and John had no time to even suck in a breath before he got his answer, wordless, but definitive.

Sherlock tilted his head and closed the final inch. He kissed John with care, shallow and tender at first, testing the waters. His fingers were beautiful points of sensation on John's jaw, neither forceful nor punishing, but captivating all the same. The touch scattered John's thoughts to the wind, stripping everything away.

It was unbelievable. Sherlock, who had tempted John from the moment he set eyes on him, was kissing him, soft and shy. This was Sherlock holding himself back, as if he were worried that one wrong move would scare John into retreat.

Idiot.

With a moan of surrender, John opened up, revelling in the way Sherlock melted against him as the kiss turned deep and longing. He clutched at Sherlock's shoulders, his thumbs stroking meaningless circles and patterns. The rest of him remained motionless, locked in place by surprise before assurance sank through him. This – Sherlock's tongue tangling with his own and the smoothness of his teeth – was real.

Sherlock made a noise, rough and wanton, sending exhilaration spiking down John's back to coil at the base of his spine. A nip of teeth jolted him from his reverie, igniting his nerves like fuses as a growl rumbled in his chest, more desperate than threatening, more wild than human. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, answering the sound with one of his own and chuckling as John abruptly flipped them both, sprawling across Sherlock and sinking down to devour that lush mouth.

His brain was disconnected, its muted concerns about why Sherlock had chosen this moment to reach out silenced entirely by the throbbing, rolling heat that washed through him in seething waves. He didn't give a damn about reasons. All that mattered was the spread of Sherlock's body beneath his: an endless stretch of pale, naked skin steadily flushing pink with passion.

Long legs entwined around John's, scissoring them together, locked at the ankles and cinched together from knees and thighs to shifting, grinding hips. The contact was electric, and John tipped back his head, a gasp rushing down his throat. It sharpened into a cry as Sherlock reared up, blunt teeth scraping over his pulse, dangerous and thrilling. He would never hurt him, of that John was certain, but the power in the frame beneath his, leashed but still there, honed the blade of his desire.

'Oh, God!' he whispered, curling his back to press his brow against Sherlock's, nudging him none-to-kindly back down to the skewed pillows and licking into his mouth, tasting his straining breaths and the flavour of his need. John's hands traced down slender sides, following the camber of his ribs and the soft underbelly beneath: strength and vulnerability divided by the finest of lines. Yet there was no strain in Sherlock's form beyond that invoked by lust. He lay back in trusting surrender, arching up into John's palms as his own hands dragged along John's spine, plucking at the waistband of his pyjama trousers in fretful flickers of movement before diving underneath to palm the swell of John's backside.

His hum of appreciation purred in John's ear, caught on an edge of laughter as John twitched, his hips jolting forward into the cradle of Sherlock's pelvis and the undeniable ridge of his arousal. Pleasure flirted along the boundary of pain, and he wriggled, desperate for more as his tongue traced the column of Sherlock's throat, licking and biting as if he could consume him.

The moment he reached a nipple, Sherlock's spine arched like he'd been shocked, almost bucking John off with the strength of his reaction. Before he could so much as blink, John found their positions reversed, him on his back, his legs tangled in the forgotten quilt. Sherlock braced his weight over him, looking downright sinful as his lips twisted in a feral grin. 'My turn.'

He cocked an eyebrow, one last request for permission that John was eager to give. He had spent too long wanting Sherlock, not just his flesh but the man himself. Now, in the spin of a moment, his wishes had come true, and John burned beneath the rush of his yearning as Sherlock bent his head.

It was like being taken apart, Sherlock as devoted to John in his focus as he was to any murder scene. He explored John's neck, torso and arms, utilising all the senses at his disposal. He could almost feel Sherlock making a mental note of the details, the tether between them growing bright with every ounce of new, intimate knowledge.

John reached out, his fingers curling around the swell of Sherlock's shoulder and tracing the ridges of the svelte muscles in his arms. His efforts at reciprocation were clumsy, a stumbling lurch in the wake of Sherlock's dancing hands and lips. However, he met every kiss that he could and answered each caress, trembling and keen.

The flicker of Sherlock's tongue in his navel made him moan, and the next thing he knew, the pyjama trousers were gone. Weak, ragged cotton ripped beneath the force of Sherlock's haste as they were half dragged off him, half torn away.

'Hey!' John protested weakly, but his heart wasn't in it. He couldn't quite work out whether to be shocked, impressed, or horny as hell. In the end, Sherlock answered that question for him by nuzzling into the short, curled hairs between John's legs. His indrawn breath was a tormenting whisper over the hot ache of John's erection, and his moan of appreciation at the fragrance there a brand along John's spine.

Words were useless, and John reached out, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and guiding his hand firmly to the apex of his thighs, a sob catching in his throat as clever fingers eagerly wrapped around his length, stroking and testing as John's nerves sizzled and sparked. God, it was too much – too much being touched without getting any of Sherlock for himself – and John reacted instinctively. One leg curled over Sherlock's hip, his thigh rigid as he twisted them so they lay side-by-side. Immediately, they reached for each other, filling their hands with burning flesh as they groaned in unison.

'Fuck,' Sherlock hissed in encouragement, the rare curse like a match to dry tinder as flames surfed the crests of John's muscles, making him shudder. Heat was everywhere, filling John's lungs and his chest, his blood and his veins, but mostly it was concentrated in his palm, where he flexed his hand around Sherlock's hard, full cock. He'd dreamt about this – gauzy imaginings that had nothing on reality – and now John was torn between keeping his eyes open to drink in the sight and closing them to better enjoy the electric sensitivity that tightened with every sweep of Sherlock's fingers and the slick glide of their lips.

'This – I –' John clenched his teeth, giving up on speech as he dropped his head to Sherlock’s chest, sweating and shaking as he watched the ragged movement of his own hand. He grinned at the helpless twitch of Sherlock's body, savouring the sight of him slowly falling apart.

It was cramped, awkward, and his arm was starting to ache, but he couldn't bring himself to care. How could he, when the scent of both of them filled his nose? Every breath was not just Sherlock or John, but the two of them together, and John drew it in like a drug.

Sherlock's touch dipped down to tease at John's balls before stretching around to capture them both in his grip. Clumsy fingers weaved with John's grasp before Sherlock moved, sliding their joined hands up and down their lengths in bold, devastating sweeps.

John choked on a whine, writhing deeper into that tempting pressure. The rhythm was ragged, and lube would have made it easier, but there was something sensuous about skin-and-skin, the faint dew of pre-come, the sheer spontaneity of what they were doing. It was the flick of a switch, the tipping of a balance, and John was only too happy to fall.

A clear bead welled at the tip of Sherlock's cock, trailing down to their moving hands. John watched hungrily, his mouth watering at the sight as his hips jerked, each breath a feverish hiss across Sherlock's collarbones. He wanted to kiss him, to sink into him as they dove into their shared grip, but John couldn't tear his eyes away from what they were doing. Even better, he knew Sherlock was watching too, flushed lips parted around uneven pants, mesmerised and whispering the same curses of encouragement that caught beneath John's roughened voice.

He licked his lips, tasting the sweat on Sherlock's skin and hearing his gasp turn sharp and longing. He tipped up his head and swept his lips over the tender flesh of Sherlock's throat. His teeth were a mere suggestion as he sucked, his hand squeezing the crest of Sherlock's hips as he ravenously left his mark, rumbling in appreciation as abrupt heat flooded between them, scented with sex and salt.

Sherlock's fingers tightened weakly around John, their stuttering passage slick and obscene as he sagged against him, cheeks dark and eyes glazed with release. Something primitive purred in the pit of John's stomach to see him so ravaged. A bruise from John's tender bite bloomed on his neck and his hair was a chaotic mess.

However, there was still a predatory gleam in Sherlock's eyes, hazy yet smug. It intensified as John's breaths became hoarse whines, trapped behind the bite of his teeth on his lip before one final rut sparked his orgasm into being: sultry pleasure obliterating everything else in its path.

Ecstasy was one small fraction of a whole as conscious thought was wiped away, leaving him as vulnerable as the moment of his change. It was blankness and euphoria, all wrapped up in a racing, rushing tide of heat that unfurled along his nerves and took root in his brain. His chest strained over each breath, and everywhere Sherlock's skin touched his, he burned with pleasure.

After long moments, the waves quieted, leaving John gasping, lax and spent. Sherlock's frame was a sultry stretch next to him, his hands gentle as the duet of their heartbeats regained a slow, steady pace. Warm lips met his, deliciously tender, and John answered in kind, unhurried and worshipful as passion's heat steadily receded to a pervasive, comforting ease between them.

A shivery laugh of disbelief escaped him as he nuzzled at Sherlock's pulse and kissed that tripping beat. He felt as if he were full of helium, light and floating on a cloud of sated bliss. A sticky mess splattered across their stomachs and hips. If they didn't clean up soon, they'd end up adhered to each other, but John wasn't moving, not for anything.

'That was – I think –' He licked his lips, clearing his throat and abandoning his praises as his cheeks flushed and his face stretched in a helpless grin. 'What happened to "I'm flattered by your interest." exactly?'

Sherlock gave a crooked smile, his eyes amused as he trailed his fingers down John's side and up again, as if he were afraid he'd disappear if he let go. 'Things change,' he murmured, his voice half an octave lower than usual, lethargic and satisfied. 'Besides, I never actually said I didn't return the sentiment.'

John reached out, tracing the shape of Sherlock's lips, unable to keep the wonder that such intimacy was allowed from thrilling through him. 'How long?' he husked, sighing in pleasure as Sherlock dragged the tangled quilt up over them and pulled John into a lazy sprawl across his chest. 'When did you start thinking of me like that?'

He could hear Sherlock considering it – not the careful calculation of what John might want to hear, but an honest analysis of memories. 'You intrigued me from the moment you walked into Bart's, which is rare enough itself. Most people don't warrant a second glance.'

'And I did?'

'Obviously,' Sherlock replied, his murmur like ragged silk. 'Then there was the way you fought against undergoing your change.'

'Stubborn, you said.'

'Determined may have been a more apt description,' he conceded, shaking his head as his hand slipped around and down, exploring the faint dimples of the bite that had brought John to this point. 'I understood, even if I didn't agree with your conclusions. However, I think “Friend” ceased to provide adequate definition when –' A twitch crossed Sherlock's face, as if he still couldn't quite believe it '– when we were both in wolf form for the first time, and your first instinct was to _play_.'

John grinned, because if he had to pick the moment he knew he was totally lost, it was when that dark wolf, stoic and dignified, had given him such a baffled look before chasing him around the couch and pulling his tail. Maybe for Sherlock, it had been a turning point in his sentiments. For John, it was where lust and wanting blended with affection to make, well, this.

He was about to reply when a sound outside their door made him pause, his head cocked as he gave the closed panel a dubious look. 'What was that?'

Sherlock gave an indifferent hum, grunting in complaint when John clambered off him, wrapping the quilt around his hips before padding over to investigate. His nostrils flared, picking up the faintest trace of Greg's scent, not enough to suggest the DI was standing on the other side to get an eyeful, but a ghostly hint. He had probably been there hours ago, when Sherlock was asleep, which made John less self-conscious. He didn't fancy the ribbing he'd have to deal with if Greg had overheard any noises the two of them had made.

'He's probably dropped off our things,' Sherlock sighed. 'You might as well bring them in, since you're up.' He managed to make the last part sound like John had committed some kind of crime by struggling free from their nest. With a glance over his shoulder, John admitted he had a point.

One arm lay behind Sherlock's head while the other hand rested below his navel. Most of John's lovers – and applying that word to Sherlock almost broke his brain with the joy of it – had covered themselves, regardless of their familiarity with him. Sherlock of course, was the exception, and every line and angle of his body was an invitation back to bed.

Quickly, John opened the door a fraction, checking for Mrs Hudson before grabbing the two bags full of their clothes and effects. He fumbled with the quilt, but managed to get everything inside before he noticed another bundle, rife with the scent of meat and deep-fried rice. Chinese. Perfect.

Greg's scrawl was on the side of one of the cartons: firm instructions for John and Sherlock to eat and call him if they wanted anything. Not that they did. The DI had pretty much got them covered in that regard, at least for a few more hours.

'Hungry?' John called out, peering at the contents as he shut the front door with his elbow, considering his options. It would need a couple of minutes in the microwave, but the petulant growl of his stomach suggested the effort was necessary. He tucked the covers around himself like some kind of half-toga before grimacing at the patina of sweat and come on his skin. 'Although maybe a shower would be a good idea.'

An arm snaked around his waist, making him twitch in surprise. He hadn't heard Sherlock move, but now the bare expanse of his chest leaned against his back, lithe but strong. A nudge at his neck – quiet affection – made him grin like a fool, and he rolled his eyes as he looked back and realised Sherlock's other hand was occupied with his phone, which he'd retrieved from the Belstaff's pocket.

'Food first.' Sherlock teased his lips over John's nape before pulling away, looking embarrassed and unsure. John immediately disabused him of any doubts, kissing him soundly and feeling his uncertainty melt like mist before sunlight.

They lingered, the craving to touch overwhelming everything else, and John shivered in delight at Sherlock's responsiveness. There was nothing shy about the tease of his tongue or the stroke of his hands down John's back. Perhaps the pair of them were uncertain about a lot of things, but at least they could be sure of each other.

'Food?' John reminded him softly as Sherlock withdrew, grinning at his grunt of acknowledgement before he was released to set about heating up the take-away. The bulk of the bed covers made movement awkward, but John managed to shuffle around the kitchen, raising his voice as Sherlock padded through to his bedroom.

'So did you get a text?' he asked, looking over his shoulder as Sherlock returned and handed him his red robe, too long in the sleeves, but easier to manage than the eiderdown. John shrugged into it gratefully, doing up the sash and trying not to smirk at Sherlock's rumpled state. He'd put on the blue silk housecoat, but barely bothered to do it up. A broad vee struck its line down his chest, and the collar threatened to slip off entirely as Sherlock's attention was consumed by his mobile again. 'That's the noise I heard, wasn't it? Your message alert going off.'

'Lestrade's filling me in on the particulars of the case,' Sherlock replied, looking up when John poked him, urging him to elaborate.

'Go on then. I mean, I'm assuming we caught the right bloke?'

A hum of agreement resonated through the kitchen, and John watched Sherlock narrow his eyes as he explained. 'Kerr shares that house with his sister; the man we took down was her boyfriend. It turns out Mayhew had created a stock-market program in his spare time. Not so much for manipulation as a superior method of trading. It could have made him millions in a matter of days, though the legality was questionable at best.' Sherlock shrugged. 'He was just putting the finishing touches to the functional code.'

'And the boyfriend decided he wanted it for himself?' he asked, grimacing. 'How did he even know about it?'

'Kerr was good friends with the victim, and, judging from what the police have discovered, disapproved of his sister's lover. He was making efforts to hook her up with Mayhew instead.' Sherlock set the phone down, watching John as he put various parcels of food in the microwave. 'Apparently all four of them started to socialise together, the boyfriend probably attempting to defend his claim to the sister with his presence. The result was that Mayhew knew the suspect well enough not to be suspicious of him the day he was shot.'

'So either the boyfriend knew about the program first hand, or Kerr's sister filled him in on the details,' John surmised, shaking his head in sad disbelief. 'Not the wisest move.'

'Obviously. The accused has a low level of education coupled with a history of petty crime... murder's hardly a stretch. Besides, Lestrade suggests there's an element of prejudice involved. The prisoner has been vitriolic about Mactírí during his interview. Apparently, killing one is no more criminal than running over a dog.'

'So he's confessed?' John's lips pinched as he thought of the unremarkable man sprawled beneath Sherlock's fur-clad weight, the one whose gun could so easily had brought everything to an abrupt, horrific end. 'What about Kerr's sister? Perhaps she did more than tell her bloke about Mayhew. Could she have put him up to it?' He watched Sherlock shake his head, fingers tapping idly on the table before John placed some Chinese in front of him.

'I doubt it, but Lestrade will be able to uncover the truth if she did. She lived in the house in which the stink bombs were made, that's why the scent went separate ways. She walked out with her lover and then parted from him, but there's nothing to indicate she knew what he had done. All the information suggests the suspect paid a homeless person to hide the clothes you later found.'

Grabbing the carton of deep-fried rice, John sat down at Sherlock's side, manipulating the chopsticks clumsily as he turned Sherlock's behaviour over in his mind.

Under normal circumstances, John suspected that he would check out the sister himself, but despite the subtle joy in Sherlock's face and the soft, enticing thrill of their intimacy, there was a sensation of vulnerability gilding their telepathic link. It was not just the insecurity of the new frontier of their relationship, which John felt in kind. Instead, a taint of ghostly disquiet haunted the air: a remnant of Sherlock's regret over his loss of control.

Nothing John could say would eradicate that baseless guilt, but perhaps words weren't necessary. He understood Sherlock better than anyone, and he would make sure he was secure in his own skin again, whether that hide was decked out in a suit or clad in dense fur.

However, before he could do anything else, he had to ask the question that had buzzed in his mind since Sherlock had bent forward to bestow that first kiss. He wished he could hold it back, safe and silent, rather than risk disturbing the tentative balance they had found, but he needed to know that what they'd done together meant more than brief mutual gratification in the heat of the moment.

'Why now?' His voice rasped over the words, and he frowned down at his meal, picking it over. 'One minute, you're talking about cutting me off from you, and the next –' He gestured to the disarray on the floor, pillows cast about and twisted sheets, before meeting Sherlock's eyes. His stomach twisted itself in knots, abruptly nervous, and John swallowed, his appetite waning as the silence stretched.

Tentative fingers tapped the back of his hand, making him look up again. He was used to seeing Sherlock put on masks for people to see: disdain and indifference, but while his expression was muted, it was far from blank. His lips were tilted and his brow creased, but it looked more intent than disapproving, and John watched him lick his lips before he spoke.

'Because you didn't agree with me.' Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic about the basic logic of his reasoning. 'I told you that we should break the connection, and rather than conceding, you fought for it. You showed me you wanted to stay. That's more than anyone else has ever done.'

He fidgeted where he sat, poking at his meal and looking painfully discomfited by the whole subject, but John waited, practically biting his tongue as his pulse fluttered. He hadn't been in possession of an ulterior motive during that argument. There had been nothing on his mind but saving something that he treasured: his connection to Sherlock and the dynamic they had built between them. Proving himself had never been a part of it, and yet that was the result.

'I knew you were attracted to me,' Sherlock continued, 'and was well-aware I felt the same way. Have done for a while. However, there's a difference between realising the truth and acting on it. I wasn't sure …' He shook his head, whatever he had been about to add vanishing as he allowed himself a rare repetition. 'I wasn't sure.'

John's smile felt crooked with relief, the restrained, timid hope he carried burgeoning fast and strong. 'And now you are?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. No doubt his analytical mind was struggling with the imprecision of the question. Certainty was relative, John knew that, but slowly, Sherlock nodded, his fingers returning to the back of John's hand only to be caught in the cup of his palm as he twisted his wrist and gently tugged Sherlock to his feet.

'Good. So am I. Come on,' he urged, abandoning his meal. 'Greg's got the case sorted; he doesn't need us for a while, and I'm beginning to think his suggestion to stay in the flat for a few days was a very good idea.' He grinned, watching interest gleam in Sherlock's gaze. 'I'm hitting the shower. Are you coming?'

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow, blatantly flirtatious 'Why do I suspect that getting clean won't be your highest priority?' he murmured.

'Problem?' John asked, his imitation flawless before he laughed, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's grip and leading him, willing and playful, into the bathroom. Within minutes, warm water and hot hands caressed him in equal measure, and John tipped his head back, happily losing himself in all that was on offer.

An hour ago, he had been terrified Sherlock was about to rip them both apart. Instead they'd been brought together in the most intimate way possible. More than friends; more even than pack.

Like the toss of a coin, his world had changed, and this time, it was for the better.

******

'You do it on purpose.'

John hummed, not even pretending he was sorry as he chuckled into the pillow. Sherlock's weight was a heavy, perfect burden across his back, sweat-slicked and divine, and the voice that rumbled from that slender chest and resonated along John's spine sounded more resigned than angry.

'What?'

Sherlock huffed, his breath stirring John's hair as he allowed his disapproving silence to speak for him. John paid it no mind, too lost in the luminance of afterglow to rouse himself. It had been almost a month since they first become lovers, and he still wasn't used to this – the easy companionship and the sheer _rightness_ of it all.

It had taken longer than John would have liked to ease Sherlock's remaining self-disgust over his brief loss of control, but it was more than worth the effort. They had started off slow, and every time Sherlock had changed into a wolf, John had been there in one form or another, calm and patient. Gradually, the sharp edges of reluctance had softened: Sherlock's fears eased by John's unfaltering presence.

What rose in their place was a perfect blend of strength and cooperation. Sherlock had not brought up the subject of breaking their connection again. Instead they'd worked together, discovering how to stabilise themselves and each other when circumstances forced their behaviour down more animal avenues.

It wasn't perfect. They still fought on occasion, rough-and-tumble play giving way to a more vicious edge as frustration welled between them, but it was always short-lived. Besides, it turned out that Sherlock was very, _very_ good at saying he was sorry without speaking a single word.

At times, it was volatile and fierce. Others, tenderness underscored every cherished caress. Tonight, John thought, sex had fallen into the former category. A case solved, a chase across the city on racing paws: the pair of them powerful in their own right but greater than the sum of their parts when working together... They'd earned the right to celebrate.

Although that was a bit of an understatement for what they'd just done. All too easily, the excitement of the hunt twisted into something sharper and more carnal once they were back in human form. John could barely remember staggering up to his room, too intent on getting Sherlock on him – _in_ him – to bother with all but the most basic logistics.

'Love-bites,' Sherlock complained. 'Four of them.'

Peeling open one eye, John winced at the line of small, reddish marks on Sherlock's neck. Initially, he had relished them as much as John, but now the weather had grown too mild to wear a scarf, and the blemishes on Sherlock's pallid skin were too high to be hidden by a collar.

That shouldn't have sparked such intense satisfaction in John's chest, but he liked seeing them: irrefutable evidence that Sherlock was his.

'I dread to think what Lestrade would say if he saw these.'

'He'll think it's funny,' John said dismissively. 'Besides, I can't help it. It's a wolf thing.'

'I suspect it's a you thing, actually,' Sherlock replied, smirking when John pulled a face and gestured to the small, shallow bruises that dappled his chest above one nipple. 'Those aren't for anyone but me to observe. These, on the other hand...'

John sighed, silently acknowledging the distinction. He had always enjoyed the thrill of leaving some kind of visible declaration on his lovers for others to see. It was a primitive method of staking his claim, and one he'd indulged in from adolescence, with varying results from his partners. He respected their requests, but something deep in his stomach sulked and whined at the thought of Sherlock walking through London's streets, potent and beautiful, with nothing on him to show that he was John's. As it was, they vanished every time Sherlock changed form, leaving John itching to put new ones in their place.

He should probably be ashamed of his possessive streak – had been rebuked for it in the past and adjusted his behaviour accordingly – but these days it seemed more difficult. Maybe being Faolchu exacerbated the situation, but deep down, John suspected it was not who he was, but who he slept with that stimulated this territorial attitude. How could anyone look at Sherlock and not want to show the world he was theirs?

The man in question watched him, speculative and faintly amused, as if he could read every glimmer of John's emotions. Scrubbing a hand through his curls, he swatted John's backside before leaning over the bed, scrabbling around in the shadows beneath them as he searched.

John managed to grunt a faintly curious noise, wrapping his hand around the strong span of Sherlock's thigh to stop him pitching himself to the floor. 'What are you doing?'

'Compromising.' The muffled tone of Sherlock's voice cleared as he straightened up, a silver chain shimmering over his knuckles before he looped it around his neck. John's dog tags glowed against Sherlock's pale skin, the stamped writing dark amidst the halo of their rough polish.

'You can leave as many bites on me as you want below my clothes,' Sherlock promised, his voice low and torrid as he added, 'In fact, I encourage you to do so. Since that clearly doesn't satisfy your desire to have everyone else know it's you, and only you with whom I share myself, these will have to do.' He tapped the tags with his finger, his question hushed as he examined John's face. 'All right?'

John shifted, getting to his knees and tracing the two small bits of metal where they lay: the only part of his uniform to survive his first transformation. Honestly, Sherlock wearing them shouldn't have made a damn bit of difference. John did not treasure them – mere relics of an old life – but seeing them around Sherlock's neck, bold and brazen, made triumph clamp around his heart. It was a marriage of his past and his future, all wrapped up in this man.

'It's more than all right.'

Carefully, he curled his fingers, tightening the chain and pulling Sherlock in, their bodies swaying closer as they sank into the kiss. Their tongues slid against each other, lethargic and intimate, and when John drew back, it felt as if everything was falling into place.

He had spent years searching for where he belonged. Once, he thought he'd found it in the army, but even there, he had been subtlety displaced: an invader in a foreign land. Still, when he was bitten and sent back to England, he'd believed his world had come to an end.

Instead, he had found everything he had ever wanted beneath London's overcast skies: a purpose in life, a place to call home, and Sherlock.

His new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> B xxx  
> [My Tumblr](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com)  
> [My Sherlock Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=133185)  
> [My Hobbit Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kingmaker/works?fandom_id=873394)  
> [My Fullmetal Alchemist Fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction_FMA/works)

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
> Fanart:  
> [ Sherlock and John by Ivorylungs](http://ivorylungs.tumblr.com/post/60828782983)
> 
> * * *
> 
> A/N: Iseult1124 won me for the AO3 auction, and then waited patiently for me to get to work on her prompt. A huge thank you to her for all her patience, encouragement and enthusiasm. It has been a blast and a half!  
> B xxx

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All Things Inherit - Chase](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607194) by [nosetothewind94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosetothewind94/pseuds/nosetothewind94)




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